Journey
by witchfingers
Summary: Catherine's brother returns, and Trowa sets out on the long road to set things straight with himself. And, hopefully, go back home in the end.
1. the netherlands- the circus

**_Catherine's brother returns, and Trowa sets out on the long road to set things straight with himself. And, hopefully, go back home in the end._**

* * *

 _._

 _[…] And I chalked a line south down the coast_

 _Going where my thirst was open_

 _For the things that I don't know_

 _Going where I wasn't paying_

 _For the hurt that I owe […]_

 _._

 _._

 _._

* * *

 **Journey**

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Triton Bloom was lank and spunky, with bright silver eyes and a ready smile; and just like Trowa would've imagined Catherine's little brother.

The kid had found his way back to his sister after having devoted his life to finding her; and when Trowa saw the lad at a loss for words upon realizing it was really _her,_ a knot tied and settled in his stomach.

The former 03 pilot had been sporting a cozy, serene smile ever since. Shrouded in cool mystery as he ever was, he believed no one had reason to see past this special smile, when they had not seen past any of his previous ones.

And so, when he packed up and stole out of his room, a nondescript night at ungodly hours after midnight, no one noticed him leaving. No one at all- only the lion.

It was the very same lion that had been the actual first to accept him into the circus; many, many years ago. It was old and its fangs and claws were worn and no longer dangerous; and the crew trusted it to sleep outside for what was left of its days.

The beast stood up and paced slowly towards him, gently rattling the chain that held him- tonight, to the trunk of a mighty tree. Trowa placed his palm gently on its muzzle, the way he'd done countless times before, letting his fingers wonder idly over fur and tangled mane.

'You've sensed right, my old friend,' he whispered gently, 'I am leaving. And I don't think I'll see you again, although I'd like to. And if I could, and, maybe, if you were not a lion, I would like to take you with me...'

The air caught his words and turned them into a light breeze, that ruffled the lion's mane and tickled his hand.

'This is hard,' he whispered, 'I do not want to leave you. And I wish I didn't have to go, but I must, I think. I'll only be this honest with you, old friend. So keep this secret, I'll trust you with it.'

When he slowly withdrew his hand, he feared he'd just lost any warmth he'd been building up since the end of the war. But the lion stared up at him through slightly clouded eyes; and he had to will himself to stand up and start moving, before he could see the beast return to its sleeping spot under the low branches of the tree- before he could take a last look at the moonlit tents; and their sleepy charm stole his heart away, again.

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 _Feel very welcome to the story of Trowa's journey :)_


	2. the road- romania- transylvania

He hitched a ride that took him far, far out east.

He'd thought he owed it to Catherine, at least, doing it the lawful way rather than jumping into an unattended car and hot-wiring it into his possession. The driver was an old Romanian woman who was on her way to visiting her grandson, and took him as far as her grandson's doorstep.

He didn't particularly care that she'd crossed him to the other end of the continent.

She had been kind, and eager for company- he'd done some of the driving tothank her; and she'd in turn called him Trei (although he had explained that his name was not Trois, but Trowa) and asked little questions that probably no one else had ever asked him. Like his favorite season, and whether he had ever tried genuine _amandine_ , which he believed he hadn't. And when she told him that her family was from the region called Transylvania; she asked him whether he believed vampires were real. Because, she swore she did.

In the end, he had been invited to stay for her grandson's birthday party. It felt as if the whole town had gathered for the occasion, although the boy was barely turning seven. There was dancing and drinking and cake, lots of it ( _amandine_ , even); and he felt loose enough to show them a couple of juggling feats with apples. Maybe, he noted, it was because he was unable to refuse shot after shot of home-brewed _tzuica_ \- but then again, maybe not. He also noted that most of the people around him had forest-green eyes.

It was a happy place; and he was happy there. He was happy for many hours.

And then the night was old and the guests were leaving; and the woman showed him to his room (a guest room prepared just for him), kindly allowing him to lean against her shoulder to save him from swaying from the drinking. And she saw him to bed and wished him a _noapte buna_ \- and he idly (not drunkenly) wondered if it was okay, to find himself glad so soon after having felt so distraught.

He didn't particularly care much. He easily fell asleep.

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He was not allowed to leave until he'd been given food for a day and a half; and a whole bottle of _tzuica_.

The woman, who had become easily dear to Trowa, drove him to the nearest train station and suggested he went down to the Danube Delta. Her family owned a little cottage in a town right by the river, which they all tried to hog in the summer months, but was empy and, dare she say, desolate, at that particular moment of the year.

The key, she confided, was under the ugly alligator statue by the dahlias, which they kept only for the purposes of hiding the key.

'Do not laugh at this, Trei', she had said, with fake seriousness, 'He guards the house against the Romanians that give the rest of us a bad reputation.'

He had laughed, nonetheless.

He seemed to be on a rather successful track, just letting his emotions take him anywhere.

He bought a one-way ticket to the coast, and a bouquet of wild flowers for the woman.

In return, he got a kiss; a telephone number and an email address.

'Write to me anytime,' she told him, 'We know each other so little; and still you're family to me, Trei'.

'I like that,' he said, gently, 'You know by now I'll even keep the name- if you let me keep it.'

She ruffled his hair, called him a charmer.

The train slowly separated him from the platform, where the woman waved at him with collected content, as one who knows that things are well. And he waved back at her, with a smile, surprised that he would be fighting back emotion so soon.

And he pictured, with his mind's eye, that next to the serene outline of the dear woman stood an old lion, seeing him off as well, letting him know that, indeed, things were well.

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* * *

I wouldn't boast my knowledge of Romanian, however:

 _amandine: chocolate cakes_

 _tzuica: local liquor, presumably of the strong variety_

 _noapte buna: good night._

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I don't mean to write angst, but this story goes where it pleases. It has a plot, though. Reviews are greatly appreciated! :)


	3. romania- gorgova, danube delta

Trowa dried his hair with a thick towel and eyed the rain outside.

It was, as usual, rather cold inside the cottage, because no one meant for it to be used in autumn and there was no wood with which to feed the hearth. Trowa had idly gathered some boughs and twigs to light at his fancy for the sake of a fire, but he did not mind the cold, not after so many months- years- in space.

Space chilled people in a way that never thawed. Especially those born on Earth.

Little of consequence had happened to him since he'd arrived, almost a week ago, except for the time when the police had come knocking, suspicious at seeing lights in the cottage. He'd had no trouble setting them at ease, not with his charm and the owner's blessing.

Afterwards, everything had gone on fine and uneventful. He'd been fishing; and perhaps gotten a bit carried away- the fridge was stuffed with fresh catch, and he'd probably be eating river fish for the rest of his stay there. He was fond of fishing: on-and-off, he'd been doing it all his life. And getting carried away doing something was a welcome novelty, a break from himself, in a way.

He'd also kayaked his way through all the waterways he could find. He was now aware that ducks could became vicious and berserk when repeatedly, coolly poked with an oar; and that there was no way that otters were so innocent and lovely after (purposefully, it must be) getting in the way of his kayak time and time again; and must, therefore, be secretly evil creatures.

He had also been laughing a lot, which seemed to come naturally when no one was around to be surprised by the sound of it. He genuinely liked being outdoors, and the little things that made up nature bewitched him. Sometimes, he thought that was what being a child had to be all about- being fascinated by the great world around, without fear and without expectations.

Precious much to gain and worthless little to lose. He reasoned that he'd never known that because he'd been fixing engines instead of row-boats, and shooting bullets at enemies instead of home-made arrows at DIY cardboard targets.

Trowa found he liked to wait the twilight out sitting on the roof of the cottage, lazily drinking the _tzuica_ he'd been given. He liked the sharpness of the alcohol on his tongue. He liked life there, at its simplest. It was easy to forget the past and the circus and think that all there was was the river and the sky and the foggy forest- that all the nature in the world was his. And, immersed in the permanent scent of river-water and the bickering of the myriad of swamp crickets, it was not hard to believe at all.

During the day, he sometimes strolled the winding road into town and watched the people and the tourists. He observed everything, and quickly learnt how to say _hello_ and _how are you_. On the third or fourth day, he'd stepped into a store and bought a silvery flute.

Then, at dusk, he started to join the bickering of the crickets with long, melancholy notes; and although he had been playing from his heart, he promised himself to learn a couple of jigs, to maybe lighten up the crickets… and, who knew, maybe his own heart as well.

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By the first night of his second week there, Trowa had run out of _tzuica_ and bought a bottle of more familiar scotch to go with his evenings. He sat on the floor, by the hearth, where a small fire chirped, brightly and bluish, owing to the fact that it was burning driftwood.

He felt really at home and in peace there, right there, in the quiet of the night away from people and streetlights. He chased away displeasing thoughts and the ever-present lingering images of the war and mobile-suit debris floating weightless in space with a drag of scotch, straight from the bottle.

He had set himself a task.

A little notepad with a bright cover he'd bought recently sat on the coffee table, and reminded him that he was already falling a bit behind on the schedule he'd proposed to himself: he'd gotten much thinking done, in those few precious, private days. Although he had not thought of it that way, it was probably the first time in his whole life he had something akin to a vacation. And he had come to the conclusion that there must be a purpose to his being there then; and _maybe_ he had left things halfway in his life- and _maybe_ it was time he addressed them. Time that he dropped his mask and became honest with himself.

He had been, all these years, chasing after oblivion under the guise of happiness.

After the war, he had immediately returned to the circus.

Catherine had hugged the air out of his lungs and the Ringmaster had had _that_ look of badly contained pride on his face- Trowa could see just how pleased the man was of what, _who_ he was- and that he had stuck around, nonetheless. He'd felt a rare kind of warmth spreading through his chest, lighting up his soul. He'd allowed himself to be consumed by it, no questions asked. He'd become The Man; featured in every function: the secret hero, without whom the world would likely be no world at all.

All the same, as things were, what had actually transpired during the years AC 195-196 was a state secret. If the Ringmaster could have proclaimed Trowa's deeds to the audience, he would have done so over and over again (and lavishly), and the public would have clapped and cheered and sought him out. But it could not be, and, anyway, Trowa only liked the limelight when it was a literal limelight- stage, acrobatics, Cathy's knives- otherwise, he silently took to the shadows. He only basked in the pampering that had come with his war-hero status. Even despite Cathy's constant reminding him that he ought not to let it get to his head.

It was enough for him to know he was home. He'd made it to a haven of love and respect and care, which was surfeit more than he'd ever thought he'd have.

For many peaceful, blissful years, he couldn't care less about what happened to the rest of the world. He allowed himself to leave loose ends and fall out of contact. Sporadically he got news from Duo or Quatre. Once, Heero had dropped by to visit him when he was in town. And he made sure to always call the other pilots for their birthdays.

But there was peace, and life was calling, and everyone was too busy answering. So what if it was selfish- he'd done his share already. He _deserved_ selfish.

And yet, one morning, like a divine punishment for his idleness, the peace he thought he'd gained had been upset. He'd sat outside, on the grass, by the cages of the animals, inspecting the wood in the swings and trapezes for minuscule signs of rot that could cause an accident. A lad in his late teens had come up to him, boots covered in mud that betrayed his walking for many miles, for many months, a sheen of sweat on his brow and dark rings around his eyes- a pair of very familiar, silver eyes.

'Good morning,' he'd called, 'I'm looking for a girl. Well,' the lad had reconsidered, 'She'd be a woman now... and going by the last name Bloom, if I'm lucky. Would that tell you anything?'

Trowa knew the spirited look in his eyes. Hopeful, but not _too_ hopeful. Down to Earth. Just like Catherine. He had been slow in standing up; and not because he couldn't think, but rather, because he was thinking too fast.

'Of course,' he'd answered gently, 'If you excuse me, I'll get her for you'. He had, after a little, courteous bow (just the kind that he'd perfected for the audience), even if he knew that change would come in the shape of Triton Bloom; and even though he didn't know if he was ready for it.

And, yes, seeing the lad gaping at a freshly awoken Catherine had set something in motion in Trowa's soul that had left him perplexed at first, and haunted later, and had plagued his sleep many nights: together with Triton's soft breathing from the bed beneath his own, in the room they'd come to share.

And then, one night, a night just like any other; he'd had a dream.

He'd dreamt of being out in space again: an open, endless, freezing expanse of dim blackness devoid of stars or light. A heavy presence assured him that a colony stood behind him (although he couldn't see it). Slowly, as he'd become aware of his surroundings, he'd found himself in the impersonal cockpit of a Gundam that wasn't Heavyarms. And as if he always knew he'd be back there some day (a twisted kind of a day of reckoning); before his eyes, the Zero system began to play him; showing him all the people he had wronged and deceived in his life and all the chances he had had of backing away from a mission of dubious moral outcome, and had chosen not to. He had been shown peace. But, was there peace for the betrayers? For those that killed in cold blood, and moved on, unfeeling? A visionless, answerless void followed the unvoiced questions that the system conjured.

The final image that Wing Zero showed him was that of Triton Bloom beholding Catherine Bloom, silver eyes wide and unfocused as though he'd never truly believed he'd find her. And, outside of that image, he'd seen himself. Silent.

Not smiling.

Trowa had awoken with a start.

And with that, he knew that his time for _selfish_ had been used up, and that, maybe, with the turmoil and unfamiliar (and non-detached) pangs of jealousy, and the disconcerting feeling of loss (loss?), it had also come the time for giving back.

What felt like ages after the moment of quiet realization that came with the dream (nightmare)... [ _ages after Trowa had been lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, with eyes open and mind reeling, and what felt like stop-motion images of Trowa slipping soundlessly from under the covers, of Trowa grabbing a change of clothes and all his money; of Trowa petting the lion one last time and walking into the darkness_ ]; indeed, what felt like ages later, in a little cottage in a nameless town of the Romanian outback provinces, Trowa corked up the bottle of scotch and poked the embers with a fire iron.

On the notepad, the calmly wrote the title of the list- the purpose of his task **: _What Trowa Barton should give back, if it is within his power._**

He sighed. It was a good, orderly way to set things straight with himself. To stop running in circles around the illusion of an inner peace too easily rattled, and put some ghosts to rest, finally.

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* * *

 _Hi dear readers!_

 _I wanted to let you guys know that there will be humor and Gundam pilots later on in the story, but for now, it has to proceed a bit slowly, because Trowa has a lot of himself to unravel._

 _As a curiosity, I'll tell you I decided to set his soul-searching in Romania because, as his origins are unknown but they say they might be latin, I thought it was the country that best fit him. He's got a sexy gypsy feel... well, at least to me, that is :P_

 _Well, I hope you like the story so far! I'd be delighted to read what you think about it :)_

 _Take care, and we'll read eachother soon!_

* * *

 **A/N (bis):**

 **About the canon:** I'm not taking Frozen Teardrop into account for this story.

 **A reply to Guest's review:** the reason for this is twofold: first, I didn't read it :P Second, I didn't want to read it because most of the pilot's stories take a turn for the sadder, and I think they should've been through with the sadness once the OVA was over (that's the childish reason :P). I hope you can enjoy this story nonetheless! I wish you'll leave me a signed-in review so that I can answer your question fully without giving away details of the plot here ;) And I wanted to thank you for taking the time to review :)

 **A big thanks:** to _Hana-Liatris, Guest_ and _Pokeyonekenobie_ , for their support 3


	4. romania- danube delta, the cottage

It was both easy and complicated to word such a list as short as his turned out to be, and Trowa couldn't say he was pleased with himself at the result.

He wasn't a perfectionist, and yet, frowning, he thought he couldn't connect with the words he'd lain out on the narrow notepad. He feared he was forcing himself to do things he didn't know whether he really felt.

Then again, introspection had never been a real part of being a soldier. Introspection, as a soldier, was actually a very bad idea.

He shrugged. _Maybe the better way to best myself is to let come what may_ , he thought.

And then spent at least ten minutes re-reading his little list. Although he tried to convince himself not to be over-analytical, he thought it was probably a good tactical move to switch items #4 and #5. So, he switched them.

A light smile appeared on his lips. An amused voice, which might have resembled Duo's, drifted emptily through the silence: _Though you may take the soldier out of the battle, you never take the tactics out of the soldier._

He turned in for the night well after midnight.

Outside, it was moonless and cold with swamp-moisture and darkness. But though the noises of the lively wildlife were loud outside his window, and the scent of smoke was heavy with damp- though; deep in the wilderness, wolves howled and owls hooted emptily- Trowa closed his eyes rather pleased. And he was not, in the slightest, afraid of anything in the world.

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* * *

 _I felt it was right for the pace of the story for this little chapter to stand alone._

 _The next chapter is almost finished, and will be out soon :)_


	5. romania- gorgova, the river, the town

That Tuesday, the river seemed to carry much more water than usual.

Trowa sat on the edge of the riverbank, his feet dangling dangerously in the strong current. He had a ceramic cup in one hand and his cell phone in the other one; and while he sipped the warm coffee, he wondered what to make of Catherine's laconic reply.

Of course he had texted her the morning after he'd left the circus ( _he'd been standing alone by the highway, cutting a melancholy figure in the grayish light of right-after-daybreak, hoping to hitch a ride somewhere_ , _wherever_ ). He'd told her not to worry about him- said he'd be alright, he only needed some time to gather his thoughts.

But afterwards he'd set the phone on _mute_ until its battery ran out and he didn't even notice; and he had not plucked the courage to charge until it the night before (and, probably, only because he knew he'd need it soon).

Catherine's text showed it had been sent as an immediate response to his- it was dated the same day, five minutes later.

He didn't know Catherine to be very eloquent when texting, but the ' _Ok. Stay safe_.' she'd written plus the lack of missed calls sat not-well with his conscience. He hoped not to have wounded her with his unpremeditated departure: the sole thought of it left a bitter sting in his mouth.

With a resigned sigh, he flicked his fingers over the screen: ' _I'm safe. Don't worry._ ' Send. He hesitated. If he was going to follow his gut on this... endeavor, like he had promised himself he would the night before; he had to be more true to what he felt. His slim fingers dashed over the screen again- ' _Sorry for the silence, I had a lot on my mind. I'll keep in touch, Cathy. I miss you._ ' Send.

 _Now, that sounds a lot more like something she'll like to hear_ , Trowa told himself with slight pride, _and it doesn't make it more or less honest than 'don't worry'._

While he thought this, the current pushed against his legs so strongly that he felt like it meant to uproot him from where he sat, and haul him all the way down to the Black Sea. But he was made of solid muscle and stoic strength, and wordlessly challenged the river to move him. To the result that, half an hour later, when he stood to return to the cottage, he felt he'd won two little battles that morning: one against himself, of course, and one against the river.

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Trowa was pleased to discover that, no matter whether he had that for lunch every day, he didn't grow tired of the taste of fresh-water fish. It went surprisingly well with the wild watercress he found by the heaps in the smaller channels of the river, and he had always been very fond of salad. It was probably what he'd missed the most working in the grim colonies, whenever he did spare a longing thought to the food back on Earth.

Catherine found it entertaining for whichever reason of her own, that he was such a tough, enduring man and so fond of 'leaves and twigs'. He'd eventually learned from other male members of the circus crew that, apparently, it was a non-macho thing to eat.

Well, he couldn't care less. There isn't macho or non-macho food in space, his reasoning had concluded, with slight amusement. If anything, non-macho would definitely include sipping liquefied proteins from a cheap plastic straw, and yet that was what you routinely got in space- and there was no complaining.

He dedicated a slow, knowing chuckle to the memory of his circus companions, and ate a forkful of watercress in their honor. Such refreshing folk... he was very fond of them.

He postponed thinking about his task, which he had inwardly started to call 'The Task' (and not 'The Mission', as a distant voice in his head that sounded oddly like Heero's had suggested) until the dishes were done and he had a scented cup of coffee warm in his hands.

He strolled across the small living room to watch the world outside the large window. The sunny, sleepy world. The depth of the evergreen plants that never wavered to the power of autumn gave him a degree of comfort that little else could. He thought of the singing of the water in the river, and listened to the birds that had remained rather than migrating south.

Such peace. He wished he could have that forever.

 _You know_ , he told himself, _nothing's actually in your way_. Other than, at present, The Task. Well, at least he knew what he needed to get started. A couple of precise memories, and a sound internet connection.

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 ** _What Trowa Barton should give back, if it is within his power._**

 _#1. Find the Corps. Apologize._

He closed the little notepad. That was the first item in the list, and in every bit as challenging as the rest of them, which looked perhaps more intimidating, but where by all means easier to approach.

He sighed, feeling somewhat downcast at the very thought of what waited ahead. It would be bitter, but apologizing would be the easy part: there was no member of his old rebel army Corps left alive, (he'd been a reluctant, direct witness to that). Finding where to apologize, however... he was young at the time, and too concerned about his mask (and, therefore, his heart), to be able to remember exactly _where_ their last fight had taken place.

To that respect, his mind was blank. Still, Trowa belonged to those who believe that nothing is truly forgotten- only inaccessible at the moment. He'd reasoned he'd be able to get a lead, but he needed to focus.

He caught the internet connection he needed in the old part of the town, in a café that was busy enough to be cheerful, and quiet enough to let him think.

There, he put his sparse new knowledge of Romanian to the test, because the good-natured, womanly waitress didn't speak a word of the common tongue. He was mildly surprised to have made himself understood, and ordered a cup of raspberry tea still basking in the feeling of success that warmed him since that morning.

He unlocked his phone to see that Catherine had texted back, a sweet message of reassurance that she'd be fine and that she knew he needed his space (she had, however, subtly chided him for leaving so impulsively). He smiled.

Indeed, he'd left on an impulse. It'd been as good a start as any.

She also said that she was very glad to have news of him. ' _Some time alone will do you good, Trowa. Thanks for trusting me with this'_ , she wrote.

He'd not thought of it that way. He guessed he _was_ kind of trusting her by texting her now and then, rather than braving his travelling alone. He distractedly noticed that she had, tactfully, avoided mentioning her brother- the real one.

He shook his head with a small, sad smile, such was Catherine. She worked with what he gave her; and her respect awed him, sometimes. He felt a pang in his breast when he thought he wished he did to her at least half the good she did to him, and found himself wishing that she was there so that he could tell her, but if he did a reality-check, he doubted his ability to voice out any of his thoughts. He was strong- but not that strong, yet.

For a respite from such troubling thoughts, he eyed the notepad, and his handwriting struck him as one belonging to a man very used to typing and not used to writing with a pen at all.

He allowed the memory of Catherine to fade to a safe place in his heart; and focused on the few words that represented such a crossroads.

It'd been so long, too long- his present memory was riddled with images of battlefields and corpses and wreckage. The last battle of his rebel corps hadn't been the bloodiest or the toughest- but it had been his first taste at the obliteration of what he took for granted, and its aftertaste had taken forever to fade- and the memory of that aftertaste would be with him until he died.

Even though the internet connection was awesome and his phone was wickedly fast, the random, idle inputs he tested in Google of ' _forest_ ', ' _field_ ', ' _unfair ambush in a forested area of Europe 17 years ago_ ' took him nowhere.

Starting a new page in the notepad, he prepared to go through with the method that he thought would be his best shot at retrieving the location from the unfathomable recesses of his mind. He'd learnt it many years ago, when he'd lost his memory in space and he was desperate to recall something, _anything_. It was rather primitive, but effective.

He let himself be carried to the past, back to when he was barely 10 or 11, and wore thick mittens and borrowed, frayed bomber jackets. He'd owned nothing but the will to keep on living, and the pay he got when the missions were over- if he did what was expected of him, of course.

He closed his eyes, tuning out the sounds of the people around him and the cars on the streets, and going into a very silent world of late nights and early mornings. Back then, he usually went to sleep before midday, _and he didn't particularly like to wake up when the sun was gone, again. He was a kid that loved the sun, and disliked the cold and bleakness that came with sleepless nights. No one but him knew that, however._

 _Although he was remunerated just like any other mercenary in that army, and thus at the same level as the rest of them, because he was so young they would warm up to him and do him little kindnesses. They'd give him soup and ruffle his hair. He guessed that it was because he must've reminded many of them of family they'd left behind, tucked away in distant, safe places._

 _He didn't care about having no name, back then. He fancied he was happy that those who must've once loved him had taken his name with them, somewhere where the hurt he caused others could not taint it. Somewhere where they were keeping it safe, for when he returned._

 _But he tried not to think about it: he wasn't one to linger long on useless thoughts that could distract him and get him killed._

 _Around the time when they'd been killed off, the Corps had taken a straight and unwavering road to the field that had become their graveyard, marching over the countryside for days, passing little towns and villages where the people spoke in a strange, punctured language; where the road signs had looked completely alien to him and the letters seemed to be smiling._

Blinking briefly, Trowa thought he'd recognize the language again if he saw it. _Language_ , he wrote on the notepad.

He closed his eyes again, but flickered them open almost immediately. _Straight road,_ he added, _flat countryside. Many little towns and villages_. It wasn't much. Actually, it bordered on pathetic little. Advising himself to discard the frown, and maintain the thread of his thoughts, he tried going back again.

 _Usually, they marched by night. When they had to stop for supplies, they would send him to collect them- meager No-name who was unlikely to be suspected of being a rebel mercenary. Before the battle, he'd often returned to camp with baskets filled with dry sausages, apples, and, even cabbages or peppers._

Trowa's list kept growing- _dry sausages, apples, peppers, cabbage_. It didn't make him think of anything in particular, other than his mild annoyance at being the errand-boy, and that he'd not liked cabbage _._ God, he still hated it.

 _When they made stew out of it, he discreetly used to feed it to whichever dog had been following their army at the time. A pack of wild dogs had tailed behind them for a while until the Corps had met their horrible end; and between Budapest and the battlefield he'd lost, at least, two kilos._

He was not thoroughly surprised to realize that that was it. He remembered now how they'd passed through the suburbs of Budapest in commendable stealth, going unnoticed because there'd been, at the time, some festivity full of wine and decorated mobile suits. Yes, it was all there... even waiting to be remembered, maybe- No-name stealing half a bottle of wine, when no one was looking. Telling the Captain he didn't think it was a great idea to split, yet splitting anyway when the order came.

 _No-name covering the rearguard, yet not on time. Firing bullet after bullet, and then, waiting hour after hour. Him- a dusty kid, jumping down from the cockpit of his rusty mobile suit to inspect the desolate, moonlit landscape. The scent of torn grass and burning motor oil. The dreaded silence, the dreadful feeling of empty loneliness- before him, a field of wrung metal and burning guns, and corpses._

It was a sad thing. Trowa had known all those men by name, and yet, he'd stood there, impassive, looking at the scene of destruction with detachment. He'd bit back the anger, the hurting in his chest, wrapped it all in a tight bundle of feeling and swallowed it, and walked away from that haunting place, his face never betraying a single thought of his.

He'd stowed away in a shuttle to space, and landed in the L3 Colony cluster by chance. Then he'd continued to survive. Ditched a name after the other. Learnt to fix things.

He sat in the café long after all the other customers had gone, believing he could feel the cold seeping from him outwards, reaching the nice, matronly waitress who reacted to it by bringing him a piece of _amandine_ and a gleaming shot of _pálinka_.

'Thank you,' he said, gently.

'It's for your heart,' she answered.

.

Unlike some of the other former Gundam pilots, he wasn't _that_ great of a hacker. But he could get by, if he needed to- and once he had a starting point, it was easy for him to find the place he sought.

It was now a parsley field, in a distant, rural area in the mighty unpronounceable Hungarian county of Jász-Nagykun-Szolnok, near the equally unutterable town of Törökszentmiklós. His estimate was that it was roughly 800 km away from his current location. However, for someone used to travelling the long, tedious way between the Earth and the Colonies, the ride ahead of him appeared to be relatively short.

He'd not be doing it by train, though, he mused. He longed to feel the familiar strength of an engine under his hands again.

His phone's battery was practically dead.

With a head full of thoughts, he paid and tipped the waitress, and started heading for the soothing path that lead to the cottage.

The waitress ran after him, making him stop. She began telling him something long and heartfelt in Romanian, but spoken so quickly and in such a thick accent that Trowa could not understand a thing.

Rare puzzlement shone in his eyes, and the waitress laughed and gently patted his back.

'Nu fi trist,' she said, this time slowly, and he understood her, 'tu esti prea bine pentru a fi trist,' she added, a merry wink in her eyes. And when his mild surprise (at actually having understood her...) was betrayed by a thin, too-faint blush (when the words sank in), the waitress heartily ruffled his hair and returned to the café.

.

 _'Don't be sad,' she said, this time slowly, and he understood her, 'You're too handsome to be sad.'_

.

.

.

* * *

 ** _A/N_**

 _ **About the background for this story:** I assume that most of you either read of are familiar with ' **Episode Zero'**. I deliberately decided to omit any mention to Middie Une in this story, because she has no part in it to play; and I think that if Trowa didn't have a crush on her (which, in this story, he didn't), then he had little reason to remember her._

 _If you feel like you'd have liked to read her here, maybe I can ease your disappointment by suggesting you read my other story, ' **Of fire and ice, and fire'** , which you'll easily find in my profile :) _

_._

* * *

Please doubt my Romanian. I try my best, but it's still a language I don't really master :) The glossary for this chapter would include just one word:

 _pálinka_ \- another kind of traditional Eastern European schnapps. Kind of icky, at least in my experience, haha.

* * *

Oh, yes. I wanted to tell you guys that it makes me happy that so many of you agree that _Frozen Teardrop_ shouldn't have been. So much unnecessary sadness :(

 **I'd like to specially thank _Cyn Finnegan_** ** _, Pokeyonekenobie_** ** _, Guest, Hana-Liatris (sexy latin greeneyed pilots with characters of their own, yay ;D)_** **and _Bryony (some Trowa/Cathy kind-of-moments here!)_** **for their support!**

 **.**

 **And say hello to the readers from Iraq and the United Arab Emirates! :O** (I saw there were some in the traffic stats for the story ;) )

 _Up next_ _: jigs and cards. Kind of._


	6. romania- gorgova, the town and Radu's

The next afternoon, he was back in town.

His arms were stinging in the good way, because he'd spent the whole morning kayaking through some minor waterways. Most turned out to be very shallow, and he'd had to push his way with the oars through many narrow-walled passages, and sometimes even carry the muddy kayak on his shoulder over streaks too shoaly to navigate.

He bought a motorcycle suited for long journeys, and 17 bottles of _tzuica_ , which he thought the best homage he could pay to a bunch of fallen comrades he'd not really known that well, even if he could still recall some of their names. Then, he spent at least a good half an hour in a huge plant nursery, browsing through the dizzying variety of rose plants. He'd thought he'd pick one with red-velvet roses- Catherine's undisputed favorites- but he ended up picking a plant with cheerful orange flowers instead. ("bright amber-orange", according to the salesperson). He believed they suited her better.

He also made a phone call.

'Alo? Trei?' The woman picked up, and immediately seemed to know who was calling.

He smiled softly. 'Yes, it's me. How are you?'

She- his hostess- said she was very well, although her grandson was giving her a handful. He laughed with her, easily.

'I'll never be able to thank you enough for the kindness you have shown me,' Trowa said, 'I doubt I did anything to deserve it.'

'Psh, I won't hear of it, dear Trei. It's me who must thank you for looking after our rickety cottage. I doubt that alligator, sometimes'. Again, they laughed together, and something in Trowa's heart became a little lighter.

'My boy, I know that if you're calling it's because you're about to leave. Am I right?'

She was.

'Indeed,' he replied, softly, sending his smile though the phone.

'I am glad,' she said, 'that you could put your thoughts in order. Now, listen to me,' she paused, barely, as if to catch her breath, 'There is a friend of mine in town- a very good, very dear friend of mine. You mustn't leave before you see him, Trei, promise to me that you will go.'

'I promise,' Trowa answered.

'His name is Radu, and he is a very good man. I will tell you know how to get to his house. Do you have a pen at hand?'

He smiled patiently. 'Yes. Tell me...'

.

He rode the bike back to the cottage, the autumn-colored trees and sunny evergreens flashing past him in a blur, and Trowa thought all the while that he'd never enjoyed a test drive before as much as he was enjoying that one.

He had to search all over the cottage until he found a shovel, that turned up tucked under one of the sofas in the living room. Until the sun went down, he stayed out in the garden; where he planted the rose bush in a sunny patch near the alligator. Then, he spent the remainder of daylight in catching up with working out, and keeping up with his splits He'd not realized how much he'd been missing that, and so he ended up indulging even in some risky aerial flips that left him panting and grinning with exhaustion.

He stayed up late doing all kinds of handstands on the sturdy coffee table in the living room, and eventually it got so late that he decided to oversleep the following morning.

.

As he'd promised his hostess, he hiked to Radu's house the following afternoon.

The way wound through a thicket of woodland that made him feel kind of like a medieval pilgrim, the sky was heavy with storm-clouds. The scents of the earth stirred awake to dance in the air ahead of the rain.

He got the feeling, before knocking on the white wooden door, that the house belonged to some sort of scholar, by all means also a single man.

Radu was quick to open the door, and his face (which confirmed Trowa's suppositions about the owner) lit up when he saw him.

'Ah, yes, Trei, probably! Come, come on in, my friend. I was expecting you!'

Trowa thanked him and silently let himself follow Radu, trying not to be over-deductive of him; as he knew himself to be of people he just met. It was hard for old habits to die, but he was making an effort.

'I was talking on the phone long today with your hostess,' Radu said, conversationally, after making Trowa sit down in his living room, and making sure he was comfortable. Trowa found he liked the man already, with his bald head, and sparkling green eyes, and odd manner of speaking the common tongue.

'I hope I am not intruding on your kindness,' he said when he accepted a cup of strong, scented tea.

'No way, not at all- you know how the friend of a friend is always a friend, right?'

 _Right,_ Trowa thought absently, _though that'd make me friends with wacky people._ He smiled, dismissing the thought.

'Well, it is true for me, at least,' Radu said, a bit mischievously, and Trowa laughed quietly. 'But she was really wanting that you'd come to see me, so much that in the end I wanted to meet you myself. And, you know, Trei, you're really just like she described you.'

Slightly amused, Trowa asked him just how she'd described him.

'Very tall,' Radu said with a laugh, 'And far away. Which is right on spot, now that I see you. She said also that you are very kind, and quick to read a person.'

Trowa's eyes softened. Was that really how she saw him? Well, she had no reason to think otherwise of him- after all, the war had ended many years ago.

'... you fought in the wars, did you not?' Radu asked, kindly adding, 'She didn't tell me of it, but your eyes are cold... they saw many things.'

Trowa gave his answer through a frail smile, not really knowing what to make of the present situation. There he was, drinking tea with a perfect stranger who, apparently, could read him like a storybook.

He voiced out his thoughts without even meaning to: 'Am I that easy to figure out?'

Radu smiled conspiratorially. 'Only when you know where to look.'

Trowa whispered that it was fair enough, and asked what kind of tea that was, changing topics without honestly meaning to.

'Oh, it's a family blend, to call it something. It's mixed ginger, chamomile, linden, and mint, from my orchard.'

'I like it,' he commented, simply, 'It's very fresh.'

He was promptly promised that he would be given a bag of the blend before he left. Trowa's eyes sparkled. 'You shouldn't, really. I'm afraid it's kindness I couldn't possibly repay.'

'Nonesense,' Radu said, dismissing his concern, 'You're not meant to pay back a gift, Trei. Still, you can humor me on a little something'.

Trowa would have bowed slightly, if he'd been standing. It was a thing from the circus he'd adopted because he thought it was a dear way to show people that he was humbled. Instead, he nodded deeply: 'All that is within my power.'

Radu stood up. He looked like was a man of deliberate movements, and seemed not to do anything without an actual purpose. Trowa saw him stride towards a cupboard (decorated with the traditional Romanian painted eggs), and pull out a drawer, from where he took with great care a rectangular wooden box. Holding it with both hands and with some degree of reverence, he walked back over to where he'd been sitting, across Trowa.

Neither spoke while Radu opened the box serenely and drew out something that was wrapped in a rich, silky cloth. Trowa had been idly speculating what Radu was up to- with mild surprise, he beheld the deck of long cards that the man carefully uncovered.

'Tarot cards…?' he asked, his curiosity piqued, 'I wouldn't have taken you for a Tarot reader.'

'I'm one only occasionally,' Radu answered, shuffling the deck in a manner that seemed, however, very precise and practiced, 'In special times. I felt that it was a special time, now,' he explained, as he carefully spread the deck on the coffee table.

He gestured for Trowa to come closer. 'Pick one,' he offered.

Trowa nodded, decisive, but took a long time, apparently studying the ornate drawings on the back of the cards. They all showed a dolphin, leaping from the sea towards the sky.

He held out his hand to take a card, but hesitated. 'I've never done this before,' he explained, softly, 'Must I choose at random?'

Radu was smiling patiently. 'It helps to close your eyes. Try to see if there's a card in particular calling to you.'

Trowa closed his eyes.

Sometimes, the circus employed fortune tellers, and he had often been dragged along with Catherine when she went around asking about her future (...husband, usually). Most of the predictions directed at her were too obscure, and generally rather outlandish. Their words usually didn't hold for a mind as logical as his (especially if the fortune tellers tried to woo _him_ as well).

He usually let them in on his thoughts, which meant that those encounters tended to end with Catherine slightly irritated at him, mostly for his "immense lack of imagination". _You're hopeless, Trowa_ , she'd say, _Isn't there at least a bit of romanticism in your heart, at all?_ Not for divination, that he was aware of, he thought, but he usually replied to her fake-ish concern by chuckling.

Sitting in that living room, though, with Radu staring intently at him with no intention of hiding his interest; his thoughts about the fakeness of fortune telling were distant; and the feeling of a prickling in the back of his head was all-too-real. As if there was something _else_ in the works in that cozy room. Or maybe it was just the feeling of anticipation. Anyway, he tried to feel for something that 'called him'.

Eyes still closed, he held out his hand, and drew a card.

 _The Emperor_ , it said; and he looked at it with some degree of interest but little idea about what it represented. Shrugging, he handed it over to Radu. He felt it would be stupid to ask what it meant, it was implicit he'd be told.

'Oh, yes, The Emperor,' Radu said, with a little knowing smile.

'It doesn't seem to surprise you,' Trowa commented.

Radu eyed the card, fondly: 'No, it does not, really. It is a very good sign.' He gathered the other cards, and placed them gently back on the cloth and in the box. He then set The Emperor face up, in the middle of the small, circular table, from where it seemed to irradiate some kind of mild allure.

Trowa found himself leaning in to study the fair drawing on the card: a crowned, bearded man sitting on a throne, against a backdrop of ominous, looming mountains.

'It could only have been a good card like this one, the one that you would draw,' Radu explained, 'Because you've left your home to find something; and you are very vulnerable now.'

It was not hard to notice the curious gleam Trowa's eyes, it was, however, harder to see that he was surprised at being told of vulnerability.

'It happens often that, when we are at our weakest, we are the most open to change. To new ways. You see, Trei,' he worded, almost conspiratorially, and leaning closer to him, 'The Emperor is a card of power. It signals determination, the chance to make a difference in your life and reshuffle destiny. Do you think this applies to you, now?'

He'd not expected he'd be asked for any kind of input. 'I thought divination was a one-way thing,' he supplied politely.

'Oh, psh, divination is a fallacy,' Radu said dismissively, 'The cards show you an aspect of your possibilities. At the very best, they provide a guidance. But it's always up to your own interpretation. They're not _magic_ , you know.'

Trowa smiled. 'Well,' he conceded, 'Then that might apply to me. I'm on a journey, in more than one way, I think.'

'Yes, yes. The determination that this card marks is also about being creative and resourceful, that's good for travelers. You're a resourceful man, I see it in your stance, Trei.' Honesty shone in Radu's eyes as he exposed his reasoning, 'I wanted you to draw a card because I want you to leave this town with some advice for the road. Something you can, so to say, fall back on. When you're at a crossroads or when things get tough.'

He made a small pause for Trowa to take in what he was saying. When his interlocutor's steady green eyes met his, he continued: 'You have the wind in your back. Don't doubt that you're doing the right thing. Don't doubt the reasons that made you set out in the first place.'

A light crossed Trowa's eyes. It lasted but a second. It was hard for him to take in how easily this man could make him feel disarmed, like his life held no greater secrets.

Him, the master of concealment...!

'Trei,' Radu said, with a sigh, 'I don't know why, but you look like you have a hand clenching your heart. As if you were walking in a world where you feel you owe favors to everybody. I don't know why I feel this from you, but maybe it is because I felt like that too, long ago.'

Trowa shook his head. 'You can see through me too well, and maybe know better than myself what I'm feeling. Maybe you are right. Maybe some things are still heavy to bear.'

'Asculta-ma, Trei. Some say the future lies behind us; unseen and unknown. But the past lies before us so that we keep it in sight, and know what of the things we did were right and what were mistakes.' He looked straight into his eyes, and evenly asked: 'Do you have regrets?'

'I thought I didn't', Trowa answered honestly, 'When I set out- I thought I didn't. I'm not sure now, though.'

A small smile passed Radu's lips. As he listened to Trowa, his eyes were set on The Emperor. 'You heard the saying, surely, Trei- that the only journey is the one within. So, my friend, what were you thinking when you set off? Your hostess said to me that when she picked you up, you weren't going anywhere in particular.'

'I wasn't,' said Trowa, 'I just felt...' he paused. He didn't really know what he'd felt. 'I don't know,' he said, at length, averting his eyes- 'I might have been scared.' His lips curved into a sad, resigned smile.

Radu's voice was low and gentle. 'What was your fear, Trei?'

'Me,' he found himself saying, without thinking, 'What I might do. I was scared of myself. I thought that putting some distance between them and me may set me straight...' he looked into Radu's expectant eyes, and, with clean honesty, furthered- 'That's not exactly what's happened so far.'

He anticipated Radu's laughter, although he wasn't sure he liked it very much, because no one- with the exception of Catherine- ever laughed at his expense. 'Ah, Trei, you are... what's that word... yes- sulking. You're sulking, Trei! So you ran away from yourself... the problem is that you are the only person you're going to live your whole life with!'

Trowa failed to see what was so funny ( _I'm not sulking_ , he thought), but his seriousness did nothing to quell Radu's good-natured half-grin.

'You're only human, Trei,' he told him, wisdom making his eyes twinkle, 'There is no shame in getting away. There is, however, great strength in coming back. Will you go back, once you sort yourself out?'

'I'd like to, yes. I always think of home.'

'Very well, then- do remember your Emperor and the good tidings it brought for you. You're fine, my friend, and you're gonna be fine. You're on the right track.'

.

When he left, with countless blessings and a bag of Radu's tea-blend, even though the shadows were dark, the clouds reflected the town lights and became the same reddish color as the limy river waters.

A light drizzle was falling, slowly, and the scent of rain soon chased away the smell of logs burning in Radu's hearth. The road was muddy, and his socks quickly felt cool with damp that passed through the fabric of his shoes.

He walked slowly. He was in no hurry, although the cottage was a good half an hour away from where he was. Warmth filled his chest when he thought of the rest of the afternoon spent in quiet conversation and dominoes with Radu, who'd turned out to be lucky in games and unlucky in love, (from what Trowa could infer from what little Radu told him).

The world around was wet, and very silent. In spring, there would have been overlapping chorales of frogs and cicadas, but winter was around the corner and the wildlife was becoming lazy. To chase away the drizzle, that grazed his skin like minuscule kisses, Trowa absentmindedly hummed a random tune. It threaded itself into a low-toned melody. When he became aware of it, he noticed it sounded quite merry, and decided to shape it into a jig. He'd promised himself one, after all.

He whistled his newly found song with placid delight all the way back to the cottage, while thinking of a name that could go with it. The 'Danube Delta' jig. The 'Farewell to Gorgova' jig. The 'Thoughtful Kayaking Getaway' jig.

By the time he'd opened the door and put his shoes and socks to dry by the hearth he'd soon be lighting, he'd settled for 'Radu's Rainy Jig'. He knew that, in that way, he would never forget that afternoon, or that place, for that matter. Radu seemed to be the embodiment of the town, the river, and the cottage. Kind, yet world-worn. Realistic, yet unwavering. A balance that Trowa found very comforting.

There was a pair of slippers he'd borrowed from a closet which he'd been using for the past few days. He slipped them on and ventured outside, where the drizzle had grown into a steady rainfall, to hoist in some sturdy logs that seemed to be dry enough to still light up nicely.

Soon enough, there was a healthy fire glowing in the hearth, and his shoes were placed strategically to dry- he was confident they'd be good for the following day. The rest of his clothes followed suit, also in strategic positions, since he'd only brought one change of clothes with him, and he didn't want to tempt his luck. Plus, he only had one jacket.

In pajama bottoms (he'd been smart enough not to forget them) and a shirt he borrowed from the closet (it wasn't his size, though), he fixed himself some dinner, that he ate standing up in the middle of the kitchen.

Then, he made himself a cup of tea that he took to the living room, where he sat cross-legged on the floor, watching the fire. Pretty soon, his face was warm and his hair was dry.

 _Before long_ , he thought, _I'll be on the move again. I better get some rest tonight_.

He heaved a sigh, and the flames flickered.

Some old scars pulsated against his skin when the weather was damp like this, and he hoped that what he felt was weariness from the day and not a slight ache in his bones. There were, of course, no answers in the fire; and for the first time in a long while he longed not to be alone. He wished to have someone with whom he could stare into the samba flames- his mind idly conjured the image of a large, tan beast curled by his side, the long, erratic shadows playing with the outline of its silhouette, and his hand affectionately entwined in the long hairs that made the mane of the circus' lion.

He dismissed the thought with a pensive smile. Maybe, if he got back home before the old lion died, he could convince the Ringmaster to let him walk it, now and then. It was clawless and fangless, and it wouldn't hurt anyone- not unlike himself. Maybe they'd even end up watching the late bonfires together- at that point, Trowa reasoned, the familiar beast felt more like an old ally than a mere animal.

The thought was snug, and it tugged at the corners of his lips and molded them back into a mild smile.

He stretched, and welcome excitement built up in his chest. If all went well, he'd be on the road again tomorrow, and he found he could hardly wait.

When he went to sleep that night, his hair smelled like smoke, and he felt so relaxed that he could almost pretend he had no scars at all.

.

.

.

* * *

 _Radu is a friend of mine :)_

 _He'll never read this, but I'd like to dedicate this chapter to him, nonetheless. Also, I don't think he's a tarotist._

 _But he totally could be one._

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_**

 _I'm personally very fond of this chapter :)_

 _I'm sorry for making my notes so long. But I like to share what I consider important and my thoughts regarding the chapters :P_

 _First things first- Glossary:_

 _Asculta-ma: Listen to me_

 _._

 _I'm a sucker for symbolism, and once that I had envisioned the back-side of the cards containing a dolphin, I had to do some research about it. I really like one particular description that I found, I felt it was very Trowa:_

" […] Dolphins are both highly intelligent and closely in tune with their instincts, striking a balance between the two states. Dolphins are also a symbol of protection and of resurrection. […] People who identify with the dolphin totem are usually peaceful and gentle, but with a deep inner strength. […]"

 _About Tarot:_ _So I was doing some research for this chapter and read lots of scary accounts regarding Tarot and the Occult… this story is by no means an encouragement for you guys to get involved with shady business!_

 _._

Radu says: _'Some say the future lies behind us; unseen and unknown. But the past lies before us […]'._ That is the belief of some Melanesian tribes. Conversely, in the Occident, we imagine the past to be behind and the future ahead. Interesting, isn't it?

* * *

 ** _Guest_** : _Hi! :D You're a very acute reader. Yes, that means he doesn't really know where he's from, but I'll only hint at this- he seemed to pick up Romanian rather quickly :O I don't think I'll expand on that, though. I don't know. We'll see where the story wants to go :)_

 _._

I'd like to send a virtual hug to **Guest** , **Briony** (yup, I also want to ruffle his hair and pinch his cheeks... and give him lots of chocolate and family love!) and **sallysally** for their lovely reviews and constant support!


	7. romania- from gorgova to roman

_I'd like to dedicate this chapter to my sister, for her unwavering support :)_

 _._

* * *

 _._

 _._

 _Under the stars, Catherine was dancing to a gypsy melody with the two girls that performed the closing trapeze act._

 _Sitting by the edge of the bonfire light and the breathing darkness, Trowa stitched up the holes in his favorite socks, and watched them as the girls twirled and clapped, and gradually abducted other observing members of the troupe to make them join in their lively dance._

 _His time to join them came right after the fire breather's. Catherine stretched her arms towards him, her feet still moving to the beat, her hips swaying distractedly._

 _'Come on in, Trowa!' she said merrily, taking his hands in her hands, making him stand up; and he ignored her rosy cheeks and her heaving chest in favor of questioning his being able to keep the pace up._

 _'I doubt I'm good at this,' he told her, 'but I'll join you, nonetheless. Give me a second, though.'_

 _Soon, he was twirling around the bonfire too, his dancing more of a gentle, in-compass sway, but his hands expertly rattled a borrowed tambourine, the tin zils ringing through the night like a myriad silver bells._

 _From afar, they must have looked like a choreography of fireflies- gypsy fireflies._

 _Beer bottles were merrily passed from hand to hand (circus-style, with flips and flourishes), ownerless- as per custom, each took a swig and passed it on. At some point, and possibly slightly under the influence, Catherine had swung an arm over his shoulders and declared: 'Trowa, brother dearest. I'll have you know I'm not marrying until I meet the guy that can play the tambourine half as well as you do!'_

 _The dancers- almost everyone in the troupe, by then- roared with laughter, and even Trowa had allowed himself a measured, fond chuckle._

 _However, he discreetly pulled out of the crowd some minutes later, to put the tambourine to rest on a stool._

 _The Ringmaster noticed his action: 'Indeed, Trowa, fear their womanly wiles!' he boomed, 'Wise to do that, kid, before you end up seducing the whole of my troupe! Fat good would that be!' he'd pronounced loudly, yet amicably, cheeks red-tinged with exhaustion and beer._

 _Embarrassment was an emotion rather foreign to Trowa, and he decided that night that it could remain that way, for all he cared._

 _So, he ignored the Ringmaster and his qualms about dancing, and he joined them, and danced with them until the bonfire was embers, and everyone agreed it was good to call it a night._

.

There was a special place in Trowa's heart where he exclusively stored memories like that one: moments of belonging to something beyond him.

Family, he guessed.

.

That morning- the morning of his departure from the cottage and from Gorgova- he reveled in the tingling warmth that came with the thought of home.

At peace with himself, he began to brew the coffee, and laid everything out to make himself some scrambled eggs.

He didn't usually cook anything for breakfast, but the day ahead of him would be a long one. He knew very well how wearisome travelling by motorcycle could get, especially when the roads crossed uneven ground.

A fleeting image of something he'd dreamt the night before caught him by surprise as he idly stirred the eggs in the frying pan: He'd sat on a high throne, with a sword in his hand and a long, red cape. _Possibly also a crown on his head. He'd heard the wind cry behind him, and he'd seen it beat, incessantly, the treetops of the great, dark forest that spread before him. He'd seen it pick up his cape, and make it flitter like a battle banner._

 _He stood up, under the shadow of the looming mountains, and over his head he'd seen the sun and the moon chase one another until it was neither day nor night._

 _He'd heard- yet not seen- the battle calls, the screams, the clashing of metal against metal. It grew louder, and louder, until he realized it was the sound of the wind._

 _'Stop!' he shouted, desperately._

But at the same time that the wind died out, he woke up.

At the moment, there had been no wind outside, though he remembered hearing a distant flutter, not unlike a flag. But it had been early and he'd been sleepy and hungry, and the dream had faded into nothing.

It left him with a bad aftertaste, although he didn't know _what_ he'd seen in the scrambled eggs that could have possibly triggered that image of the dream, especially when he'd been reliving the dear memory of his circus people scarce seconds before.

Silently as was his fashion, he poured himself a cup of coffee with a pensive look on his face.

As he let his scrambled eggs slide from the pan onto a ceramic dish, the last thought he dedicated to the unsettling dream was that it _felt_ a lot like the tarot card he'd drawn from Radu's deck the day before, the Emperor- only that, in his dream, he'd been the one sitting on the throne.

He shrugged, more concerned about his breakfast going cold than about the meaning of dreams (he'd never been too curious about it, anyway), and found a place on the table where he could comfortably set the dish and the cup, and start planning for the day ahead.

.

As he tinkered around with some last-minute checkups, Trowa felt he was quite pleased with his new bike. At some point, it had been a Japanese off-road bike, probably a Suzuki, but its subsequent owners had done some adjustments of their own, and it looked like a very unique, very passable kind of long-distance tourer. Trowa was very knowledgeable when it came to any means of transport- how to pick them, how to fix them, and, (what had proved to be most important during his life), how to steal them.

(…Still, he'd bought this one. After so many years in Catherine's company, her voice would have taken over his conscience, and he'd never have heard the end of it if he'd done otherwise.)

He was rather proud of himself for having chosen this one bike. He'd liked it for its ample holding compartment under the seat, where he could easily store the- he refused to let his mind regard them as _ridiculous_ \- 17 bottles of _tzuica_ he'd bought to honor those who had possibly been his first fallen comrades. He'd also been partial to the straight, no-nonsense (yet heated!) grip, and the reliable front fender. But, without a doubt, what he liked the most about it were the high wheels, undoubtedly meant for cross-country rallies and stunts. They would not, maybe, be ideal for a journey as long as the one he meant to undertake, but he found that they still suited him immensely.

On heavy wheels, he'd have felt significantly less acrobatic.

It was painted white. He liked that as well, because otherwise it might have reminded him a bit too much of the overall design of Heavyarms (narrow, taut, without a single idle piece of equipment to add useless weight or hinder its mobility).

 _They say dogs look like their owners_ , Trowa thought, _maybe that's also true of motorcycles. And mobile suits._ He shrugged.

The wind that struggled to pick up the dampened dry leaves on the floor flustered Trowa's hair into a sloppy disarray. His fingers combed some stray locks out of his face, and they lingered in place for a while until another gust of wind tousled them again.

(He'd cut his hair shorter and shorter along the years, but never short enough to withstand the wind. He'd always been fine with his youthful fringe, and he'd never felt too pressed to get rid of it- not completely, at least. It gave him a grounded sense of identity that he profoundly appreciated. For someone who had been used to assuming varied identities- even when he was performing- it was reassuring to be able to look at himself in the mirror, at the end of the day, and have a constantly familiar face staring back at him.

… and the feeling held, even after years of civilian life.)

After oiling a particularly delicate set of chains that had looked a bit too dry to his liking, Trowa deemed himself satisfied with the bike's check-up, and he went back inside for a last-minute cup of coffee.

Without haste, he walked around the cottage, and made sure that he'd left everything he'd used clean and in the place where he'd found it.

He also scribbled a quick note, which he left on the kitchen table. It read:

 _Dear Hostess:_

 _in the summer, when you come down here, I hope that you find everything as you'd left it. You will notice a new inhabitant in your garden. I hope you like the roses- I picked them because their color made me think of you. Don't make much of it, though- as I've said before, I will never be able to repay the kindness you have done to me._

 _May we meet again,_

 _Trei._

.

A slight pang of nostalgia. That's what he felt when, sitting on the bike, he looked over his shoulder to have a last look at the cottage where his initial stormy thoughts had slowly become calm again.

The last thing he saw before he drove away was the alligator statue, once again the guardian of the keys.

On his way out of town, he stopped by a supply store and got himself a sleek, reliable helmet, and a pair of thick biker gloves. Flexing his fingers inside them, putting the helmet on, turning the key in the ignition and setting his feet on the footrests, he felt 17 and a Preventer all over again for a moment.

But then the engine roared into life and he started for the highway; and he was himself again- 28 and in the middle of nowhere, drifting, and in a process of silent revolution against himself.

.

He spent an unascertainable time in solitary driving through sleepy country roads, where the scent of the lush grass was all around him, and countless flocks of water fowl flew orderly overhead.

He refueled in Tulcea, and bought something to eat on the road and two liters of water. And, on second thought, he bought a large, colorful road map of the country, making sure all minor roads and tracks were marked in a way that pleased his practical side.

He rode on.

A couple of hours later, he got quite lost trying to circumvent the suburbs of Brăila, eventually taking a wrong turn and ending up having to patiently wait out many red traffic lights in the inner city.

In the end, he felt it'd been worth it, because he'd had the chance of driving around the old city center; and, although the cobbled streets had killed his back, he'd enjoyed watching the aged stone buildings, and basking in the timeless feeling of the remaining medieval architecture. Seeing that there were still beautiful, ancient places that had survived the wars made him happy. He thought that, at some point in history, there had been soldiers fighting in those streets, defending the same buildings he now drove past. That, probably, they'd also thought they were fair, and thus worth protecting.

When he finally found the way out of Brăila, he was very grateful to those hypothetical soldiers- and he hardly needed a compass to know he was driving to the nor-nor-west.

The highway made for a pleasant ride, and he soon found himself driving through a bucolic landscape of alternating wooded hills and farmland. There was a pleasant chill in the air as he cut through it at an average of 100 km/h: pretty fast for a bike, though not as fast as he knew he could push the engine. Still, he was in no hurry.

Trowa arrived in Tecuci at high noon, where he refueled again and made a half-an-hour pause to stretch, do a couple of handstands (one on the bike's seat, to entertain a passing old lady, who clapped in delight and cheered in Romanian), and buy himself a warm cup of coffee.

Driving out of the city, he drank the coffee leaning against the bike, looking at the dreamy landscape, mind almost completely blank but for his appreciation of the drowsy-looking clouds.

From Tecuci onwards, the road improved considerably, and he estimated he'd be covering in few hours a greater distance than he had anticipated. The number of cars and trucks increased significantly, and he was forced to divert his attention from the landscape, and be more alert towards the road. He soon made a game out of overtaking any car driving at less than 80 km/h.

The days were getting shorter, from what he could see, and the sun began to lower what felt maybe too soon to his liking. It set to his left, behind the blue mountains that started looking closer and closer the more he drove north-westwards.

After the colors that bloomed with the late-fall sunset, came the sudden tranquility of twilight; and, eventually, night.

The highway was built along the valley of the river Siret, and, in the darkness, the surrounding mountains appeared to Trowa like the gigantic walls of an enormous labyrinth.

He was an enthusiastic night-driver. He felt the thrill in his bones of cutting like a hawk through the black air, chasing after the rear-lights of the cars ahead of him. It was things like those that made him love the Earth so much.

Earth, where the darkness was alive and the air betrayed the surrounding plant life. Where, although you sped ahead indefinitely, you did not take flight and you did not fall off the sphere of artificial gravity.

Countless thoughts flickered past him like the traffic lights around him, and he couldn't find it in him to feel tired.

At about 10 pm he was pulling into the garage of a small inn in the city of Roman. His legs welcomed the ground under his feet, and he arched his back, finally letting out a yawn.

Damn, he felt so alive right then!

Along the ride, he'd drank the whole two liters he'd bought earlier, and he was dying to get a drink, some food, and go to bed. He was lucky enough that the inn was still serving food, and he was treated to homemade Romanian dishes that seemed to him right about the best he'd ever had.

And then, he went to bed, and was dead to the world until the following morning.

.

He woke up with a slight back-ache, but it was only because he'd covered about 400 km the day before, and he'd not ridden a bike in a long while.

The coffee they served in the inn was strong and black. Absentmindedly stirring some sugar into his cup, he inspected his map for the best road he could take that day. Wherever he chose to go, directly westwards, or north, and then westwards, he would have to brave steep mountain passes where he didn't know if the wheels would hold. He was lucky that it was not yet winter and that there was no ice on the roads yet, but he doubted he wanted to take his chances.

By nature, he was a cautious man, and he spent a while mentally weighing his chances. It would be strategic to set his immediate aim in the city of Cluj Napoca. With that in mind, if he kept it simple, he seemed to have two options: setting a more direct course through minor roads, or making an important detour but sticking to the well-kept highways.

He smiled privately at that being his main concern at the moment.

In the end, he decided to follow the innkeeper's advice, and take the roads that wound through the mountains. He was told that the first city he'd reach, Piatra Neamț, was immensely beautiful and absolutely worth seeing. He figured that, given that he was there, he might as well check it out.

By 10.00 am he'd paid for the night, and the food, and he was already on his way; relishing the clear morning air and the mild sunshine.

There was hardly anyone on the road, which was straight and easy, and it felt to him that no sooner had he set out that he was spotting the urban layout in the distance. True to the innkeeper's word, the city was worth seeing. Like the day before, he found himself wandering the medieval streets (though this time it was by his own will, and not because he'd gotten helplessly lost…), and admiring the timeless feeling of the stone walls and the forested mountains in the distance.

He was leaving the city behind and entering the mountainous part of the road when he decided to stop and look at the city from above. He saw it was built by the shore of a great lake, sheltered by the mountains and the forest.

He was rather new to this landscape-awareness and sightseeing business, but he guessed that it was because, before, he'd hardly had time to do it. And yet, as he was of a contemplative nature, it seemed to come naturally to him.

Smiling softly, he snapped a picture of the view, and sent it to Catherine.

.

.

.

 **Author's Note:**

I hope I'm not boring you guys with Trowa's lonely travelling ;) Take it as an in-depth character study that will end very soon, when the other characters start showing up!

(I'm writing this with an atlas and a very, very detailed map :D)

.

I like the word 'fair'. It makes me think of the Lord of the Rings :)

.

I got my hands on a character CD (in Japanese, sadly) where the 5 pilots record someone a message- a 'morning call', 'encouraging call' and a couple other sketches. I had a lot of fun with it, especially Trowa's "morning call". He's like: "…'morning". And the guys tell him, "dude, be more expressive!". And he goes something like: "… 'morning. You should get up. As you see, it's the morning, there's birds singing outside and the sun is shining. However, I cannot make you wake up if you don't want to. Ultimately, it is your choice. Bye."

Hilarious.

If you want the file, write me and we'll figure something out!

.

 _Also: I'd like to read your interpretation of Trowa's dream! Anyone out there who ventures? :)_


	8. hungary- törökszentmiklós

_There must be blood, and this I knew.  
I believe there must be wonders, too._

 _._

 _\- S.J. Tucker, 'Wonders'._

.

* * *

.

Earlier, while in Romania, he'd hitched a ride on a truck where he could easily load his bike, so, for what would have been the most strenuous part of the mountain roads he was talking to his driver or staring out of the window.

As a result, in three hours he'd made it through the country, in half an hour he'd crossed the border (master forger that he was, he never had any kind of problems when it came to having his papers in order).

However, although he barely needed one hour to ride through the Hungarian countryside up to his destination in the town of Törökszentmiklós, crossing the border felt a bit like crossing between worlds. Upon arriving, he'd spent at _least_ forty minutes trying to make the woman at the counter of the inn understand that he didn't know _exactly_ how long he'd be there. Maybe two days.

And that he needed to put his bike away for the night.

All his goodwill and efforts had been met with the stoic repetition of ' _ném értem._ _Én nem_ _beszelek a nyelvet a_ _cigányok'_.

It'd tried him. It really had.

He'd made himself understood, though, eventually- and with the help of a questionable online translator. And in the end, he'd even been treated with some tolerable semblance of civility.

At the moment, he was lying on the bed, on his back, thinking of all he'd done until then, and how far he'd come (and far from home)... And how unlike him it was that he'd become so irked at the woman impassively staring at him, (not trying one bit to understand him at all!).

With clinical distance, he picked at his feelings. He found mostly confusion and annoyance- a slight note of reluctance, too, maybe.

He could pretend he didn't care, but he knew well that there was no point in trying to fool himself. His previous, inelegant loss of inner stability had had little to do with being hungry (hungry though he was), and much to do with what would… should… happen the following day.

It'd be time to cross the first item off The Task, and he found that the idea unbalanced him.

Although he did not fear it (not exactly, that he knew. He wasn't _too_ familiar with being afraid), the prospect of a meeting between the coming, healed man and the lingering grim, silent child, stirred in him something acrid.

Törökszentmiklós was a city that had welcomed his heart with winter hands, and the spiky embrace of an Iron Lady.

.

.

He slept in, the following morning, late enough to have missed breakfast.

So, he threw on his clothes (road-worn hiking boots, clear jeans and a white sweatshirt, a thick scarf, and his trusted jacket), aware that he'd need to have them washed pretty soon, and went out to the chilly morning to find a coffee shop.

Luckily for him, soon, he was sitting in a quiet park, reveling in the discovery of the awesomeness of Hungarian pastries.

Not many people walked around- after all, it was working hours.

He tugged the jacket a bit tighter around him- it'd been a gift from the circus crew a couple of years ago. They'd thought he'd like the fact that it looked a lot like a pilot's jacket. He wasn't sure he did like that, not when they'd given it to him, at least. It had reminded him of... things. But now, when he thought of himself (even when he remembered the war), his mind's eye always projected him wearing that jacket. And it was proving to be probably his best ally in this journey so far.

 _Up to now, I've been pretty lucky_ , Trowa thought, _I accept it. I wonder if I deserve it, though._

If Catherine were there, she'd probably say something like "Jeez, you can be so gloomy sometimes!", or, "I've been hearing the same depressing talk for years now!"

She'd probably tell him that people always deserve what comes to them, good or bad.

 _I don't think 'deserve' is the right word_ , he'd probably counter, _I'd say that they've got no other choice but to deal with it, be it good or bad._

In the hypothetical case that Catherine were there, she'd regard him with a thoughtful look and tell him that there's just some things in life you cannot be pragmatic about. Oftentimes he wondered if it was not actually _she_ who was right about it.

"Anyhow," she'd say to him, probably, "Make the most of it. _I_ believe you deserve it, and that should be enough for you!"

And, indeed, he thought- it should.

.

.

His bike was heavy when he took it out of the inn's garage. It was not hard to figure out why, but it mattered little, because soon it'd return to its original weight.

Truth be told, despite the encumbrance, he'd been uncharacteristically _proud_ to carry the 17 bottles of _tzuica_ all the long way from eastern Romania to the Hungarian-middle-of-nowhere. He'd been proud because it'd somehow felt to him like a religious experience.

Now, Trowa was no religious man. But he knew about processions and services and prayers, just like anyone else.

So, yes, he'd bought specifically 17 bottles: 17 years ago, he'd been scarce kilometers away from where he stood, seeing mercenary after mercenary go down, to remain he himself alone on a smoking, dismal field.

He was not disgusted by the idea that he might be making an offering to the memory of the fallen. Nightmares, woven into the fabric that made him, took the shape of his earliest memories of war: those.

So, yes, maybe he did see those bottles as offerings. Maybe they'd not buy his redemption for all the lives he'd taken and those he had not mourned- but, maybe, they'd persuade his heart to finally lay the blame to rest.

He'd find out, soon, anyway.

.

The merry light of the budding afternoon gave a peaceful aura to the countryside he drove through. Fields, ripe with wheat or freshly reaped, filled the air with the fresh scent of hay.

Following a way he'd set for the GPS in his phone, he had no trouble finding the field where his last battle as a mercenary on Earth had happened. The fence surrounding it was old and unkempt, and down in many places, so he just crossed it where it looked convenient, and thought little about trespassing.

He left the bike in some shrubs, and stood still- indulging in a moment of weakness.

Truth be told, he remembered little of either the place or the battle- back then, reigning in his emotions had probably drained his ability to perceive the surrounding world. But the feeling of having made it there after so many years humbled him.

He remained a long time in silence, taking in silly details like the sunny scents in the wind, the vibrant, bright- green color of the parsley that now occupied the field, or the distant buzz of an engine.

Skirting the crops in silence, he made his way over to a corner of the field where he could stand without stepping on the parsley and ruining it.

He was surprised to find there a broken piece of mobile suit, presumably a piece of an arm, half-buried in the rich dark soil- although that explained why the farmer had decided not to sow any parsley there. Some stray seeds, however, had found their way to places of their liking, and some misplaced parsley plants grew in the earth-filled crevices where the rust had eaten the metal away.

Trowa wondered if the land owner had found the now-scrap metal too hard to move, or if he'd simply decided to leave it there as a memento.

He'd never know, and he didn't mind it.

He decided that, as far as his purpose went, that spot was as good as any to pay his respects; and, finding it easier to focus on the rusty machine-fragment than on the whole of the sleepy field, he saluted.

'Captain, fellow comrades,' he addressed the broken suit,

'This is No-name, going by the name Trowa Barton now. I have come to your resting place to apologize for not mourning you properly, like anyone with a spine should have done. Instead, I ran away to space. Since we last met, I've been a clown and a Gundam Pilot, and fought for and against the colonies, the Alliance, the Treize faction, and the Barton foundation- and none ever had my loyalty. It was the skills that I learnt with this army that got me alive through all of that, and for that I owe a debt to you I can never repay.

'If you were alive, we could drink to old times, and you could tell me I'm forgiven. But, seeing that you're dead, I'll offer this to your memory, and, by your leave, I'll hold myself forgiven.'

And so, Trowa uncorked and poured each of the 17 bottles of _tzuica_ at the feet of the half-buried mobile suit arm, and took a generous draft from the last one. He decided to leave the bottles there, in an orderly pile, to serve as a memorial together with the rusting mobile suit arm.

'You'd be proud of me,' he whispered; and, taking out his silver flute, played to their memory the "Rainy Radu Jig".

When the last note escaped the flute with a jolly chime, he thought he could imagine the company of mercenaries, merry from drinking and dirty from the road, dancing to their hearts' content to the rhythm of his music, laughing.

He would have wanted to laugh with them, too- but, as luck would have it, he found himself crying instead.

.

.

He'd broken down, and he fathomed it'd been long overdue.

He wiped the last tears in the backside of the jacket's arm, and stole a last look at the mobile suit arm, turned gravestone. He wished he could remember that forever- the dark ground, moistened with _tzuica_ , the random parsley plants growing through the rust-consumed metal.

The intense green of the field, dotted with golden fallen leaves.

' _I'll never return here again,'_ he realized, with detachment, yet the pang in his chest lasted until he gathered his bike and started for the road again.

The waning afternoon wrapping around him, and his thoughts wandered to what would come.

He fell back on the knowledge that ahead, wherever the road took him in the meanwhile, there waited a story to tell, and a stolen picture.

.

.

.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

This chapter was tough to write. It's important, and I wanted to get it right. I might have cried, at some point, too.

Did you like it?

Where do you think he's going next?

.

 **'Glossary':**

' _ném értem._ _Én nem_ _beszelek a nyelvet a_ _cigányok'_ : 'I don't understand. I don't speak the language of gypsies'.

I had fun with that.

Hungarians don't like Romanians too well, some of them at least.

My Hungarian is not perfect but I'm fairly confident in the okay-ness of that sentence xD

.

As you see, I don't consider the mercenaries to have raised Trowa, like many do. I think they employed him like one more of them- like in the old days.

Maybe it's rough, but I've never heard of a crew raising a cabin boy like a son.

I also think that he never had a childhood. In the previous chapters, where he's alone in the nature and laughing and letting go, I think that's the first time he's ever done anything of the sort. He's not a character known for laughing, but I think that he might've been secretly waiting all his life to give it a go. And, who knows, maybe he'll be less insecure about it in the future :O

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 ** _A reply to Guest's review:_** I really liked your interpretation of T's dream. The throne could certainly be evocative of the Gundam's cockpit :O And no, he's not attracted to Catherine- even if he's going through a period of confusion now, she'll always feel like a sister to him. However, she's the person that he's spent most of his time around, and probably with whom he's shared the most in his life, so when he needs a 'second opinion' or a reassurance, he inevitably turns to her.

 ** _A reply to sallysally's review:_** Dracula? Well, he was in Romania, it could make sense. I'd definitely not thought of it like that when I wrote it- but I could imagine it perfectly when you said it. He's absolutely the most vampire-like pilot, hehehe.

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For **Guest** and **Bryony** (have lots of fun with Duo trying to coax everyone but Quatre into saying more than 'hm.'!) : _www. 4shared (dotcom) /get/YGYEzGSh/timvoice. html_


	9. hungary - budapest

_János: pronounced: Iá'nosh._

* * *

 _ **budapest**_

. **  
**

The kid sitting next to him in the bar had been looking at him for at least 20 minutes now, when he thought Trowa wasn't looking.

It'd irked him at first, but, after a while, it became kind of funny- funny in the way that he made some sort of game out of catching the young man's eye when he thought he was getting away with eyeing him. Every time, the young man would get kind of flustered and pretend he'd not been looking at him.

Trowa was a patient man and he knew he could go on forever, but when an amused little smile started creeping up in his normally serious face, he felt it was time to confront his… what? Admirer?

'It's a beautiful day, isn't it?'

He was not big on small talk, but, curiously, this didn't feel like small-talk at all.

The guy seemed unsure how to react- at first, maybe he seemed nervous, even. But then he seemed to decide to be nonchalant: 'Yeah, it is,' he replied, edging slightly to face Trowa, and bluntly added - 'Where are you from?'

Well, Trowa couldn't really answer that question if he wanted to be honest about it.

'I come from Romania, now' he just said.

'Right.'

Trowa returned to his beer, but felt the young man's umber eyes on his profile all the while. He didn't know precisely _why_ , but he was okay with it. He didn't feel threatened or intruded upon, so he let his companion be.

'Why do you drink that, if you clearly don't like it?', the young man asked, after a while.

Against the rim of the glass, Trowa smiled briefly.

'The taste brings pleasant memories.'

He didn't expand on it, and the kid (tactfully) didn't ask him about it- he just continued looking. Unabashedly.

'You looked puzzled,' Trowa commented at last, elegantly downing what was left of his beer.

The young man shrugged. 'You remind me of someone, that's all.'

Trowa could believe that.

'So,' his companion began, 'Are you planning to stay long in Budapest?'

'I don't know, yet.'

'I see. Well, I'll show you the city. There's lots to see, and it's always better to do it with a local.'

'You assume I'm interested,' Trowa noted with amusement.

'You _are_ ,' the young man said, dismissively, 'You looked so glum, there's practically nothing that wouldn't be better than sitting there, alone, drinking stuff you don't even like.'

Trowa's interest was piqued by the young man's seemingly contradictory way in which he conveyed interest and detachment simultaneously. As if he somehow believed he was doing Trowa a favor by talking to him.

'I'm Sam, by the way,' the kid said, and held out his hand to shake Trowa's, who inexplicably meant to say his name was Trei, but by force of habit found himself saying, quasi-mechanically,

'Trowa.'

His self-appointed tour guide was promptly scanned with a trained eye- 'Sam' had short, dark-brown hair and looked about 20 or 21. He wore normal clothes which were probably from well-known brands, and Ray-Bans dangling from his t-shirt's collar. He estimated he'd probably be rather tall –maybe as tall as he was– when he stood up.

All in all, a pretty ordinary –if classy –guy. And absolutely _not_ the kind of person that usually took an interest in Trowa. He was not fazed by this.

'I'm waiting for someone,' Sam told him, mistaking perhaps his gaze for an invitation to converse, 'then we can get going.'

Trowa shrugged: 'Fine by me.'

He'd been in odd situations since he'd set out, but he got the feeling that his adventures in Budapest were going to be memorable.

' _Trowa…_ it's a weird name,' Sam started, 'Is it actually your birth name?'

Before he could decide whether to make something up, or tell Sam to mind his own business, Trowa was saved from answering by the appearance of another young man, who asked the bartender for a beer in quick, deep Hungarian before greeting them. He also was tall, but had cropped, light-brown hair and green eyes, and was broader in frame than Sam was. He was dressed in a way that, although perfectly modern, somehow still reminded Trowa –oddly enough –of the Lord of the Rings. Possibly of Aragorn.

The newcomer hugged Sam, and respectfully tipped his head towards Trowa.

'This is my brother, János,' Sam said, 'János, this is Trowa- we're gonna show him around town.'

'What's up, man?' János asked, and immediately held his hand out to Trowa, who shook it with a strong grip and a guarded smile.

'Pleased to meet you.'

János seemed a rather carefree and cheerful sort of fellow, but, politely studying him as he drank his pint, Trowa sensed a seriousness around his edges that he concluded he liked well.

'So, Trois, were you being harassed by my brother before I arrived?'

Sam scowled at the question, and nudged his brother's shoulder, explaining, so that Trowa was not allowed time to answer, that: 'I asked about his name, is all. Gosh, you always have to assume things about me.'

'Dude, I'm not assuming anything, I saw his face! Anyway,' János said, looking at Trowa, 'Did you arrive long ago?'

Only then did Trowa stop to consider that he might look rather road-weathered. 'Got here not three hours ago.'

'Right. You look like you've been travelling for a while. You sure you're up to some sight-seeing right now? 'Cause we could leave that for later, you know. There's no rush.'

Slowly, Trowa smiled.

'We can go now. I've got nothing else to do, anyway.'

.

.

.

Trowa found he'd easily become accustomed to Sam's mercurial temper and impeccable timing for witty remarks, and János's curious yet pleasant topics for conversation, and his thick, untraceable accent.

Also, upon Sam's learning that Trowa had only brought a change of clothes with him, the three of them had ended up in a nondescript store, from where they did not leave until he got Trowa to pick a decent pair of jeans (his were starting to fray at the knees), and a t-shirt with an owl lineart (which was 'cute', in Sam's opinion, and 'scientifically accurate', in János's).

It was 7 pm, yet night had fallen early, and it was already very dark.

The city center was very beautiful, and it was distantly reminiscent of Christmastime, for the chill air and the little, colorful, merry lights. By then, the brothers had taken Trowa to the worthiest spots this side of the Danube, and they'd promised to show him the neighborhood of Buda the following day, if he felt up to it.

He'd not had any trouble agreeing to it.

The brothers seemed to be fond of him, too, in a way that made Trowa feel honored. Although he was probably a good five years older than János, who was the older brother, apparently, they were still the people closer to his own age that he'd met so far in his travels. And, if he was honest with himself, too, they belonged to the few people in his age group with whom he'd willingly interacted lately.

They shed some perspective into his life, some he was so grateful for he'd not even had time to question their ulterior intentions, if they by any chance had any. They plain seemed to like him, and, for once, that was enough for him.

They walked in a companionable silence, under the looming presences of darkened, leafless linden trees.

They seemed to be aimless, traversing the neon-lit streets tightly tucked into their coats, the cold air seeping satisfactorily through. Still, when they reached the staircase leading down to a subway station, the brothers briefly crossed some words in Hungarian, and looked expectantly at him.

'We were wondering if you'd like to come have dinner with us,' said Sam, trying to be nonchalant about it, but nonetheless looking like he'd be happy if he agreed. János had a frank, I'd-like-you-to-come-but-do-what-you-want look, instead

Trowa smiled.

'I'd like that,' he said.

.

No sooner had he agreed, that he found himself crammed into a small apartment with the two tall Hungarian brothers and their chatty, perky, and absolutely adorable grandmother, who seemed to be dead-accurately informed of their meeting, and all they'd been doing throughout the day (including Trowa's new owl t-shirt, which she was delighted to see him wearing), and was waiting for them with a tantalizing home-made dinner.

'Was I set up?', asked Trowa.

János laughed heartily, and gave him an amicable pat on the arm.

Sam smiled.

'Yeah, pretty much!'

.

.

.

'No, thanks,'

Trowa answered, lightly, when, sipping slowly from a cup of tea that had been all but thrust into his hands by the brothers' grandmother, he stood outside in the balcony with János.

Sam had stayed inside, doing whatever in his laptop, and János was lighting a cigarette.

'I rarely smoke,' the tall Hungarian said, 'Only on special occasions'. There was a look in his eyes that was halfway between mirthful and serious.

'I smoked,' said Trowa, before the silence stretched too much (though it was easy being with János), 'I dropped the habit long ago. I just hated the smell of smoke.'

'Then why did you start?'

Trowa stared out into the night. 'Curiosity, I guess,' he said, shrugging, 'At the moment, I thought my life was healthy to a fault. But I couldn't really keep it up for long.'

'I get you,' János said, taking a slow drag, 'though that's the weirdest reason for smoking I've ever heard.'

Trowa hummed, looking briefly at the ring of smoke that János blew, and then at the naked trees beyond the balcony, orange-yellow through the street-lights.

Right after eating, Sam had suggested they all hit a local club, where a friend of his was bartending for the night, and they were _very_ likely to get free drinks.

Trowa, who had respectfully offered to do the dishes, was simultaneously rejected by the brothers' energetic grandmother and swept into Sam's monologue about how they absolutely had to try out that club.

So, now, in the balcony, he looked at the distance and thought about how whimsical life could be.

János, who also looked like he was following his own personal train of thought, eventually caught up with Trowa's silence, and, taking a guess, decided that it fell within the jurisdiction of an older brother to point out what was taken for granted.

'You know,' he said, at length, 'Sam can be a bit unilateral about the clubbing business, but you don't have to come if you're not up to it.'

'I know,' Trowa said, easily, and smiled slightly, ever-looking into the darkness, 'I've not decided yet.'

.

.

Some hours later, János, Sam, and Trowa, had entered the night club free of charge, Sam had vanished between the clubbers, and János had bought Trowa a drink. Currently they sat on high stools by the bar, and Trowa was saying:

'I wanted to sell the bike here, and catch a plane to Luxembourg. But it's funny. _Now_ would be the time to do it, but the thought of quitting the road saddens me.'

János offered him a reassuring smile, full of understanding.

'I'd say, keep going until you're ready to let go, dude. No one's pushing you.'

'You're right.'

Neither of both paid much attention to the heavy electronic beats that almost felt like they could shake the ground.

'Are you usually so restrained when you go clubbing?' Trowa asked, with a quiet, half-smirk.

'It depends,' János said with a shrug, 'The best conversations I've had, I've had in places like this. They loosen people up.'

Trowa found he couldn't really agree or disagree with that. He often ended up very, very drunk after clubbing; because clubbing usually involved Catherine, and when Catherine was involved, a lot of drinking was expected… and dancing, of the acrobatic, flamboyant, _sexy_ variety. Rarely did he remember a thing afterwards. But he was usually thankful for that, anyway.

The frantic disco lights tinged their faces with countless dancing colors.

He saw how János was subtly studying him, probably drawing pretty accurate conclusions with the ease of one who's used to that. Trowa guessed he'd had a rough street-past; since he knew that to be the only place where a man could learn to read people so, that was not the battlefield.

Trowa rarely voiced the assessments he made of people: he considered that doing it was not polite nor tasteful. But János was a breezy person –in a strange, impersonal way, even a kindred spirit. He saw the expression dancing in the man's eyes and he knew what it meant.

So, Trowa took a chance.

'You look tough, too,' he said, casually.

János smirked, not even wasting time in looking surprised at being caught.

'It's just the places where life took me, and what I did to get out of them. No big deal, it's just getting by. But you, dude. You've had it _bigger_. I really respect you.'

Trowa was strangely touched by those words. It might have even shown in his eyes.

'Yup,' János said eventually, 'We've gotta drink to this bro-moment.'

It was precisely then that Sam snuck in between then, and, absolutely interrupting his brother (who only smiled patiently at him, and listened), declared that he'd indeed secured them those fabled free drinks.

Also access to the VIP sector. Though that was only for him, "sadly for them".

They laughed. The free drinks would be more than enough compensation.

.

He'd been a soldier, and he could drink like one, leaving aside that he could hold his liquor like a veteran.

So not even after drinking so heavily did he miss the touch of the demure-like pretty girl that innocently brushed past him, nor, minutes later, the feather-soft practiced caress of another pretty lady. Trained, both of them, it was easy for Trowa to tell.

Inexplicably they had thought he made for a good target, and so they seemed to be circling him, as though they were voracious sharks.

Not sure whether he had to be amused and give them points for trying, or irked that they thought he was easy to prey on, Trowa tactically let them do one, two times more, pretending he was oblivious to their deliberate bumping against him or fairy-like feeling for, most probably, his wallet.

However, ultimately, he'd drunk his fair share that night, so his mood settled on amused, though he decided the silly game was to end. When one girl finally succeeded in snatching the wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans, he was quick in inadvertently snatching it back without the pretty girl noticing, and he followed her, and her lady companion with whom she later joined, through the club, and out of a back door.

Allowing for strategic distance, he soon enough found himself in a narrow, damp alley, where the two little failed thieves gathered in a round along with some other three or four girls, rapping unintelligibly in Hungarian.

He saw his two thieves shriek when they realized they no longer had the valuables, and, as they turned around to inspect where they might have lost them, their frustration turned into scandalized rage when they saw him, standing there under the streetlight, dangling the wallet for them to see with a serene look on his face that might've meant _anything_.

'I'm sure you thought you lost this…'

Maybe he meant to say more. But, the other girls in the group mimetically acquired the two thieves' anger, and they all launched at him, trying to either claw him into submission with their long, dangerous nails, or tackle him into the ground, showing a basic knowledge of martial arts.

Unfazed, Trowa dodged them with elegant ease. They could've been throwing pillows at him in slow-motion for all he knew.

Eventually, the girls realized it was futile to try and overpower him, although that did not mean they left him alone, nor that they became less angry. If only, it bothered them even more deeply- that one single, probably tipsy, man could stand his ground against _five_ of them.

One came a step closer towards him, and began talking to him in her impenetrable language, probably cursing him, if he could read her facial expressions correctly. But, while his attention was turned to her, one of her companions tried to sneak up on him, and out of the corner of his eye, Trowa saw the seconds-lasting glistening of a knife.

Out of pure instinctual reaction, he disarmed the girl and put her unconscious –gently, but without much mercy.

Her limp body deflated to the ground, followed by the hollow clatter of the knife, next to it.

There was silence.

The remaining four girls looked at the fallen girl with incredulity, and, when two of them finally snapped and ran to pick her up, the other two looked seethingly at him, as if he'd just committed the greatest sin.

'That was _not_ necessary,' a blonde girl spat at him, killing him with her eyes.

'No, it wasn't,' Trowa conceded with vague concern, 'but she tried to knife me. I'd say it's fair.'

This blonde girl seemed, as he looked at her more intently, to be the leader of the little band of pretty miscreants

'You know what you are? You're a chauvinistic piece of shit, think you're so great to come and try'n take on me and my girls, eh? You're nothin'!' she spat, and went on to insult him and call him all the names she thought could make him recoil.

He listened to all of it, unperturbed.

She came up to him, pushing him backwards with both hands on his chest, like a ghetto girl. 'You're sick, that's what you are, you're a sick , sick bastard!' she finished.

Trowa only sighed. 'You misjudge me. Your girls made me curious. But my curiosity's satisfied,' he just said, and turned around to leave.

The girl's anger had long turned into confusion, but her glare bore into his back nonetheless, and she seemed to have taken a personal offense through the situation.

'You think you can treat a girl like that? Mock her and her sisters and even _dare_ to hurt one of them? And get away with it? A pathetic coward, that's what you are'

If only she knew.

His lips curved up, gently, a mixture of amusement and rare pity. She'd followed him, unsettled in her indignation (as though thieving from tourists could be righteous), and now they stood almost by the door that led back to the night club.

'Sorry for hurting your pride,' said Trowa, though he hardly meant it. He succeeded in making her want to murder him even more.

'Shove it, I don't need no pity from no man,' the girl spat, ferociously, her thundering eyes highlighting her pretty face.

He pondered.

'Come in,' he told her at length, with a little smile, 'Outdrink me, and you can take my money.'

The girl's narrowed eyes studied him for a while –she found nothing to conclude he was being anything but serious.

Suspicious and calculating, she followed him in.

.

The first round of tequila was like water.

She suspected him like a spy and he did nothing to hide his alcohol-fuelled amusement. She did nothing to hide her dislike of him.

The second and third rounds were all about enhancing the swirling lights and making the noise around seem louder.

With the fourth round she said her name was Virág, but it wasn't, because _virág_ meant _flower_. He told her his name was 3, so she called him _Három_.

Then they left, after the sixth or seventh round.

.

.

It was dark.

Under her hands, his skin of corded muscle looked like black stone.

He saw her eyes preternaturally reflect the blue gleam that filtered through the blinds, the flicker of a police car's light that passed through the street.

They talked of things that made a lot of sense and too little, at the same time, with breaths tinged with agave tones.

He said to her he thought they were like wanderers, taking whichever path life wanted to offer.

His words reached her through a haze of small-hours and afternightclub inebriation -she told him that was definitely the most poetic one-night-stand she'd ever had.

He laughed.

She thought he had a sad laugh, and a sad voice, and a sad face.

In his 4-am-voice, he told her the story of a bird, so beautiful it could fly everywhere it wanted: people would always give it shelter and marvel at its beauty. One night, it got caught in a thunderstorm and its feathers were ruined. It wandered eversince, visiting every place it had ever been, seeking compassion. But nobody wanted to take in an ugly, charred bird. It became restless, flying day and night, until it died, dark and ugly. A child saw it fall from the sky. 'Look, mother,' the kid said, 'It's a shooting star.'

The silence in the room was like a void. It swallowed his deep, quiet voice; and the sound of her breathing. Trowa wished he remembered where he knew the story from, but it was a distant thought (everything felt distant, that late).

'That tale doesn't make any sense,' said Virág.

'It does, to me,' he replied, quietly, 'Love is like that bird. Like a shooting star.'

The streetlight that trickled through the blinds lent her skin a feeble, pale gleam; and she was like a ghost and had nothing to say to that.

Her spidery fingers brushed the outline of the only tattoo he had, which rose slightly from the surface of the skin of his neck, right below his ear. The softly prickling feeling gave him subtle gooseflesh.

While his own fingertips idled over her marked collarbones, he had a fleeting thought of how much he'd actually remember in the morning. The thought passed, and his hand contoured her chin.

She leant down to kiss him, noting for the last time how, in the darkness, everything that was "Három" looked black and sleek, like marble.

.

The following morning Trowa woke up to the thought of Virág's clear hair on the pillow and the stench of nightlife, cigarette, and sweat that imbued his skin. He knew he'd never ask her why she turned to crime, or the reason for her underlying distaste for men, and he knew she'd not tell him, anyway, but he thought he understood her, in a way. For some, life could, from beginning to end, be barely more than a battlefield.

She was awake, watching him from the sofa in the corner, wearing only her jacket and halfway through a cigarette. For a long time, they just looked at each other.

Then Virág said: 'We're not shining stars.'

'I never said we were,' answered Trowa, his voice raspy with sleep. _But shooting stars._

'It's a pity.'

It was. His silence agreed for him.

'Laura,' she said, vacantly, 'that's my real name. I thought you should know, Három. What's _your_ name? So that we're no longer strangers.'

'Trowa.'

She smiled thinly, taking a drag from her cigarette.

'I should have known you'd lie,' she said, sadly, and exhaled, following the wisps of smoke until they became nothing.

.

.

.

The morning was cold, and the light that filtered through the slate clouds was pale, silvery.

Trowa stood alone by the Danube, sipping some decent coffee, staring vacantly at the drifting green waters. Laura _had_ taken all his money, but he did not resent her. She'd left him his ID and his credit cards. No phone number, too, he thought fondly.

She'd become a good memory.

He wore no watch, so when he turned on his phone to check the time, he discovered, amused, that János had sneaked into his phone at some point the night before, and left him a yellow note on the main screen. It read:

.

 _'I get the feeling you're the kind of guy who suddenly vanishes without any kind of goodbyes._

 _Dude, I want you to know I consider you my bro and my friend, and you're always welcome wherever I am._

 _Here, have my phone. And my address Also, don't leave without saying goodbye, man.'_

 _._

Smiling quietly, he looked at the melancholy river, at the bridges that an incipient fog threatened to swallow. Friendship.

He liked it, always.

.

.

.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Sam and János are also people that I know (and love :) ), although those are not their real names :P János might be the strangest character I ever wrote, and the biggest challenge. Though I suspect he became a mixture between reallife!"János" and Hetalia's Prussia.

Lissie don't laugh.

In case you're wondering, yes, Trowa gets drunk with Catherine. I would, too.

And I know you guys thought of this while reading, so I'll tell you straight: Yes, indeed, Trowa has read The Lord of the Rings, because I'm sure he would, and because of my artistic liberties :D

I drew inspiration for this from my (very fond) memories of Budapest, and a very cozy song by ByeAlex called **_Hé Budapest_ , **which I would recommend you to listen to, because it's very pretty.

Other songs that influenced this were ' _A holnap, máse már'_ , ("Tomorrow, yet another one") by Bereczki Zoltán, and Carry On, by Fun.

.

 ** _'Ai wa Ryuusei'_** **("Love is a Shooting Star"),** one of Trowa's image songs, has been a great inspiration for the whole story. To my mind, it's the one that shows his character the best, saying things like:

 _"I don't make excuses, nor do I need solace –I only believe."_

I'll give you the full text next chapter, it's a beautiful song, but this note is getting a bit long...

.

There is a lot of alcohol in this story. Hmmmm

.

.

 **Let's see who can guess the GWing character who's gonna show up the next chapter!**

It's gonna be awesome.


	10. austria - vienna

_to liss, who said she wanted to read another chapter_

 _._

* * *

 **vienna**

.

He'd texted János before leaving, and then he'd been persuaded to stay with the brothers a couple of days, and until there was no underground pub left in Budapest where they'd not had a beer (until he ended up liking beer…)

Now, the wind in his face made him feel alive, and lessened the sadness that came with driving away from Hungary.

The highway was busy, and sometimes the flow of traffic was slow, but, steadily, the road led him to Vienna in but a few hours.

The chill of winter in the air was now undeniable. Although the brave trees that lined the streets still displayed crowns of withered leaves, the air left a different feeling lingering on Trowa's skin, and it carried, already, scents of hearth-firewood.

Half-hidden in the crook of a narrow, stone-tiled, winding alleyway, he discovered an inn with the coziest atmosphere; and, for a change (that surprised even himself), soon enough he found himself placing his scant belongings on an ancient wooden chair, in a pretty triangular room. 3-pm light filtered through the layers of curtains, and the window offered a delightful view to a plaza that looked like a courtyard. The walls and furniture were wooden, the draperies and carpets and bed-covers in deep mahoganies and pleasant creams and ambers; and, as a whole, the place was scented like a place not meant to be ever left by its occupants. Well, occupant.

After doing a bit of routine inspecting the room, engrained in his character after years of military life (and training, eventually, too), he allowed himself a moment of weakness to fall, tall as he was, on the inviting mattress.

And he didn't even notice how or when he fell asleep.

.

.

.

The owl on his t-shirt felt a little like a guardian. Though one could not see it now, tucked under many layers of warm clothing, Trowa felt calm when having the image so close to his skin. It might have felt silly to some (to Sam, for example, when he'd first tried it on, despite the bird's supposed "cuteness")… even to some of his former Gundam fellow-pilots, but when Quatre narrated to them the symbolic meanings of some animals, one night after the Even Wars when they were Preventers, on a routine mission, carefree and around a campfire, Trowa was paying attention. He remembered Heero was pretending to listen while he observed a group of fireflies, and Duo was texting Hilde on-and-off. But Wufei would now and then make an observation or a comment –always interesting, like most what Wufei said –and Trowa was just plain listening.

He'd always loved stories, although he hardly had stories to tell himself. And, he was a good listener, anyway.

In wonder of Quatre's narration and Wufei's knowledge, he'd tried to soak in all the new information about animals; which made him think of them in a completely different light. Even if he was really intelligent, Trowa rarely delved into the meaning of things. He thought it easier to take them as they came, and then let them go when they passed. But, sometimes, he found himself in silent awe of those that could see beyond the surface, or explain the root of things. Somehow, it was fascinating to him. And, although Quatre didn't particularly like owls, owing to their apparent connection with death, he said they could also represent transition or change, and he was far gentler in his description than Wufei, who explained that according to Chinese traditions, it was as bad an omen as it could be, its sighting supposedly announcing the death of a loved one and general misfortune. Wufei seemed to generally agree with the view of his people.

For his part, Trowa liked what he'd kept about Quatre's words about the owl: a guide through a moment of transition.

He wasn't sure if he felt _guided_ as he ambled through the broad streets in downtown Vienna, but he felt a warmth in his chest that may or may not have come from the thought of the owl, that led him to nice memories of Budapest, the brothers he'd been sorry to have to leave (and, well, maybe that steamy night with Virág-Laura too, but he'd rather not get distracted in the middle of the street…)

.

The following day he visited a palace with a beautiful garden and took a guided tour of the city, directed by a lady who probably said very interesting things, but spoke with such an impenetrable accent that Trowa eventually stopped listening and tailed the group, following them without paying much attention to where he was going.

That day went by too soon, and when he was returning to the cozy inn, a couple of gypsy children accosted him, trying to get him to buy something from them- flowers, trinkets, even cigarettes. Although he declined (he had yet to draw out actual cash- Laura had taken all he had, and he'd been paying everything with his credit card anyway), as soon as the kids saw his friendly demeanor, they began to forget their purpose of making money and began inviting him to play with them.

Now, Trowa wasn't great with children- if any, he was a little awkward –but he liked them; so he indulged in some of their games. It cheered him to bring a smile to their round face, stained with dirt and snot and formerly so serious, even threatening.

They ran and played tags; and Trowa was 'it' more than he'd ever been in all his life (if he'd ever been, he could not remember). And when he said he was going to leave, they sang him a goodbye song and wished him well, so he found a place where he could use his card and bought them sweets.

Had he changed, since he'd set out?

This he could not answer as he, later, lay on the amazingly soft and homely bed of the inn. He thought he hadn't. But he felt that he, maybe, had.

.

.

.

To cross out the next item on The Task, he had to go to Luxembourg.

He wasn't completely sure that he'd find there what he sought, but he had a reasonable certainty and a hunch, which was probably just as good.

His hunches were of the reliable kind.

It was the morning of his third day in Vienna, and, as he was having breakfast, looking out at the face of the buildings across the street, darkened by the passage of time, he absentmindedly flickered his finger over the map he'd downloaded on his phone, trying to set a convenient course. Whichever way he chose to go, either straightly or taking leisurely detours, he could see no way in which he could avoid the mountains that seemed to enclose Austria more effectively.

It goes without saying that he was in no greater hurry –his bank account was very healthy, and he had not set himself a deadline to return to his (by now, rather missed) troupe. So, as he was contemplating whether to traverse the Alps into Switzerland, or cross into Germany, he got a text message.

The number was unknown to him, and he didn't remember what country the code was from. It was short, rather cryptic, and very enticing.

It said, simply, _'Call me'_.

.

.

.

Trowa did call, though not immediately.

He finished his coffee first, followed by one or two samples of the very fine Viennese _patisserie._ He then decided he felt like having a refill. And he finished his second cup of coffee, and _then_ , he called.

The voice on the other side of the line was probably the last voice on Earth that Trowa thought he'd be hearing that morning.

'Morning, Trowa,' the deep, unmistakably solemn voice of Heero greeted.

Trowa's brows shot up, but he did not let his tone betray anything but… well, surprise. Honest surprise.

'I wouldn't have thought you were one for riddles, Heero,' he commented, good-naturedly, in reference to the text, 'Good morning to you too.'

He heard Heero snort, on the other end of the call, 'I've got my days,' the former-01 pilot replied, lightly, maybe amused, 'As must you, if you're really on a crazy roadtrip around Europe…'

Trowa laughed under his breath, shaking his head privately.

'I wouldn't exactly call it crazy,' he observed, 'How _do_ you know, anyway?'

'I found out,' said Heero, mysteriously.

'You're a man with odd ideas of what makes up leisure time, aren't you?'

'It's sheer force of habit, don't make much of it.'

Trowa smiled mildly: 'I won't.'

'You're not entertaining funny thoughts about death this time, are you?' Heero inquired, as one who asks about the weather. But Trowa suddenly put two and two together and realized that, as far-fetched as that would sound, Heero had probably learnt that he'd suddenly left the circus, and worried for his mental health.

Well, he couldn't blame him. It was a reasonable conclusion.

'No, not really,' he replied, vaguely, and rather unprepared for what Heero said next:

'Good. Then, you have to come and visit. I guess it'll be on the way for you, anyway.'

.

.

.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Oh, where will Trowa end up now?

*suspense music...*

.

 **To Guest** : Every comment you leave, it's like you're inside my head. Are you sure you're not me?

.

I think I've said this before, but Trowa is 28 in this story. My sister and I agree that he's probably the oldest of the pilots, probably a good 3 years older than the rest, for all he's seen (he had to be at least 15 when he started working with the Barton Foundation, otherwise it would make little sense…)

Oh, and as I promised, here's the whole text of (in my opinion, the deepest) Trowa's image song:

 ** _Love is a Shooting Star (Ai wa Ryuusei)_**

I do not make excuses, nor do I need solace,

I only believe.

A heart that's bound to false liberties,

cannot grasp the truth.

I want to keep on using these blood-imbued hands to defend-

a life like mine is a shooting star that fades.

.

With sad eyes, I observe the distant sky,

I'm forever searching.

I turn into a bird,

flying above a too-wide world with wounded wings.

I've got no need for sympathy now:

in the midst of battle, I am a shooting star that burns,

lonely...

.

Present and future are engulfed in the flames of battle,

and everything is a dream.

And that's why our lives and the smiles that vanish

will surely create a new world.

.

You, who hide your heart 'till the end,

behold the truth.

So, become the legendary bird,

that can fly everywhere in the blue sky, free.

Hope is born from sorrow.

Entrusted with those dreams, I am a shooting star that fades,

lonely...

.

Friendship and memories drift with the fate of battle,

and everything is a dream.

But now, the courage to brave storms,

becomes the light to give rise to a new era.

Present and future are engulfed in the flames of battle,

and everything is a dream.

And that's why our lives and the smiles that vanish

will surely create a new world.

.

.

 _ **Read you next chapter! :)**_


	11. somewhere on the way to switzerland

_to you guys, for reading this story and having faith in it :)  
_

 _._

* * *

 **somewhere on the way to switzerland  
**

.

The downpour became so fierce he was forced to stop at the side of the road.

It was dark, already, and the wind viciously slapped him with rain and mighty gusts. He felt shaky, like a leaf, trembling in the storm, unable to seek the dangerous refuge of trees, and he reckoned he was uncharacteristically powerless.

Quietly, he took on the rain and watched the car-lights go by, at great speeds, on the highway. He owned the scent of rain from his childhood -from long, boring afternoons watching out of dripping windowpanes that belonged not to a home but to a tank, a mobile suit, a rundown SUV (outdated, standard military issue).

Now, he leaned against the hard, sleek side of the bike, and occasionally cleared the cloudy, bedroppled visor. He was forced to become part of the still landscape that only rained and raised mist and unearthed earthworms.

His thoughts drifted: memories mixed with everything, making him close to the ground through the fragrant scent of water and the drumming drops on his helmet.

From his distant childhood, he owned the scent of rain, the uncomfortable squelch of water in his boots. The need to be forever-searching… and the hope, yes, the inevitable hope.

The one that'd made him come so far.

 _And look now_ , a passing thought said, _how far indeed I've come._

.

.

.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

oh, prepare for next chapter, it's intense and halfway written.

But I think that, after so many characters, we needed a little quiet moment alone with Trowa :)

Read you soon, very soon!

And thank you for your kind reviews :)


	12. the road – switzerland -andermatt

_your reviews tell me that, oh, maybe you won't be expecting this :) Except you, Liss :) Best "beta" ever :D  
_

 ** _the road – switzerland -andermatt_**

* * *

 ** _._**

 ** _._**

After the rain, Trowa drove on for many, many kilometers.

Heero's "on the way" had been loosely meant. The map, and eventually the internet, when he resorted to it, showed a labyrinth of crossing roads, none of which remotely took him to Andermatt without driving him in circles through the Swiss countryside at least twice.

But to Trowa, the notion of getting lost was almost foreign. So, with a slight, faint sensation of bother, he spent the best part of a lovely sunny morning in a petrol station, alternating between decent coffee and _croissants_ , and the tangled road maps the owner offered him to borrow. When he'd been satisfied with the course he'd marked, he asked the locals for advice. But, what do you know? They'd have been as lost as he was.

The annoying sensation of bother at the chance of confusion (and at Heero) lasted until he was again on the bike. But then, he tested the brakes and, drawing in a deep breath, felt the cool, healthy mountain air filling his lungs –and soon it was all forgotten.

.

The elusive town of Andermatt hung high up, snugly, between the breasts of old, weather-worn mountains; and consisted of barely a couple of houses scattered on the surrounding slopes, and a tiny town-center; with quaint cobbled streets and noble wooden houses in the typical fashion of the Alps. Riding there felt to Trowa oddly like a desecration, so he cut the engine and slowly pushed the bike alongside until he found himself in the outer streets again. Not that it took long, since the town was really small.

From what he'd seen, he'd liked it very much. He'd felt strangely welcome, although few people were on the streets at working hours. Indeed, he got the feeling that he could very well learn to live in such a place, where you were greeted with a bow of the head of passers-by, and where the scent of appletart seemed to belong in the air.

 _I wonder,_ thought Trowa with a quiet smile, _if Heero felt the same, before he ended up here. Is he settled permanently?_ As his eyes traced the way on his phone's map, and he easily followed it to the address that Heero had texted him before (almost nonchalantly –as though he'd not just invited him over, or as though he did that often), his thoughts carried on- _Can –we- settle permanently?_

He pondered on that. He'd never given it much thought before.

The address Heero had given to him turned out to be a rather large house, also wooden and very Swiss, beautifully sequestered in the glen-like heart of a grove atop a hill. The road leading up to it was an old stone path, that suggested that the locals had fancied that place even before the house was built. Out of respect for the comforting, natural silence that sheltered the place, Trowa cut the engine once again, and pushed the bike all the way up, although the climb was, sometimes, steep.

When he was within clear sight of the house, he noticed it was actually an inn, with little flags hanging artistically from under the numerous windowsills, all pleasantly lined with red-blossomed plants whose flowers were yet unconcerned with the cold.

Many pleasant scents tinged the air: pinewood resin, roses, freshly-cut grass. And as a backdrop, the distinctive smell of the beginning of the winter: a dampness mixed with the hearty scent of logs burning in a hearth.

 _From all the places in the world_ , Trowa thought, amused, contemplating the tranquility and earnestness of the mountain inn, _this is the last place where I'd have expected Heero to be._

But before he could further wonder about the sudden unlikelihood of his present situation, and before he could even think whether he wanted to appear like he was not looking at the place in good-natured confusion; the main wooden door opened, and there, in only rolled-cuff-shirt-sleeves and dark slacks, stood Heero; eyeing him with a slow, calculating look which was all but unkind.

Suddenly, Trowa knew, that though he was not sure about how much he'd changed since he'd set out; he was sure that, at the very least, he was not Heero-like changed.

Not that Heero _looked_ any different –he looked pretty much the same he did when they were younger and Preventers: lean, strong, tall-ish and with his hair forever tousled, like he lived unexpectedly jumping out of bed. But, in his eyes –Heero's most expressive feature –there was something that Trowa _knew_ was new.

And, good, yes, definitely good.

Heero, on his part, had also been assessing his friend with a trained eye.

'You look like you traveled a lot,' he said, offhandedly in appearance and warmly through his tone, and strode to meet him with a firm handshake.

Trowa nodded, allowing a genuine smile for his friend.

'You look relaxed.'

.

It was not in Trowa's nature to ask questions, so he just followed Heero into the sunny inn. Despite its being empty, it had a friendly, welcoming air.

'The rooms are upstairs. We're closed, now, so pick the one you like best,' Heero instructed. 'Get comfortable, I'll make coffee.'

Again, Trowa did not ask anything. He'd known the other man long enough to have the certainty that he'd get an explanation once everything had been orderly taken care of, and he respected that modus operandi. To his mind, if it worked well in the battlefield, it worked well everywhere else (and so far, he'd not really been proven wrong by ordinary life). It was that respect what had made such a good team of him and Heero, long after the Eve Wars were over –but that was not what Trowa was thinking about when, picking a room at random, he found it ready as though someone had known he'd pick precisely that one.

He opted not to check the other rooms to see whether they all looked as inviting as his, and went downstairs to Heero, following the gratifying trail of the scent of coffee.

.

The ample room reserved for breakfast, when there were customers, was now empty and basking in the last warmth of the afternoon sun- a reddish light that meekly percolated through the pine trees outside the window.

The scent of the seasoned wood that made the walls interwove with the gentle scent of hazelnut, and Heero's coffee- which was as good as Trowa remembered it from their sleepless nights sifting through paperwork and case files in Preventers' HQs. They sipped it in companionable silence, knowing that neither of them was using it as a shield to strategize (like they would've done years ago), but, rather, that it was a sign that they were at ease in each other's company although it'd been… how long had it been? Maybe five, or six years, since they had last seen each other.

Trowa smiled into his coffee, enjoying the songbirds hidden in the foliage outside- _And so many things must have changed, right?_

The friendly silence lasted until soft padding came from the stairs, where the wooden steps hid no noise, with a soft rhythm.

'I thought we were alone,' Trowa commented, mildly curious.

'We are,' replied Heero, his mysteriousness bordering on teasing.

'He's here, already? Heero!,' the voice from the stairs complained, 'You should've told me! Geez, I fell _so_ asleep, how embarrassing!'

Heero's lips combed into a little smile-smirk.

When Trowa's mind processed the voice and recognized it as belonging to someone he knew, Relena had already skipped into view, and was happily embracing him as if he were a long lost friend. Taken aback, his immediate reaction did not entail hugging her back, but smiling awkwardly and whispering how he was always glad to see her well.

She was in her slippers, wearing a thick, oversized pullover over her nightgown that reached right above her knees.

 _As if she lived here_ , Trowa's mind idly noted.

Relena expertly looked around, and immediately took notice of their coffee cups.

'Heero, _really_? After running this place all this time, a _friend_ comes over, and you can't be a better host than only coffee? Geez. Where would you be, without me!' she mock-complained, placing a comfortable hand on Heero's shoulder, and then rushed away somewhere (to the kitchen, presumably), while Heero shook his head with a small smile and muttered,

'Where indeed…'

It was then that, with Relena out of sight and hearing distance, Trowa blinked, face blank, and whispered, confidentially, 'What is _she_ doing here?'

Surprisingly, Heero laughed, albeit quietly. Trowa felt that maybe his friend was having a picnic with his evident puzzlement. He let him: after all, if he could make sense out of it all, maybe he'd find it funny as well. Probably.

'She's staying until the ski season begins,' Heero said, 'We got married a couple of months ago, but she's got work to do, so that's our deal.'

'You're married,' Trowa deadpanned, and _that_ didn't really happen often.

Unfazed, Heero smiled.

'And you _are_ running a ski resort.'

Heero's smile was starting to show traces of amusement.

'I thought…' for once, he trailed off. What _had_ he thought? All that he had heard so far pointed to Heero being in charge of the inn, but he'd let it off with the belief that there was a logical explanation to all that. Undercover activity, perhaps? But, no. Judging by Heero's chill behavior, the logical explanation seemed to be that he was _indeed_ running an inn.

Very well.

Relena waltzed into the room with a trail filled with pastries and tiny sandwiches, berries and cheese (they were, after all, in Switzerland!). She arranged everything artfully before them, and, grabbing a cup of coffee herself, masterfully wove the two former pilots' stunted, loopholed exchange of information into a decent, fluid conversation.

'I was _so_ glad when Heero told me you'd come visit,' she told him, with a warmth in her words that did not match how little they'd been _actually_ acquainted, 'You're our first _personal_ guest. Ever!'

'I can't say I'm surprised,' Trowa said, smiling slightly.

Heero shrugged. 'You're probably the _one_ ex-pilot I wouldn't mind having around for more than two hours,' he conceded.

Relena, politely, said nothing, but Trowa laughed in his usual, quiet manner.

'True that,' he said.

'But I do hope we invite all our former friends here, some day,' said Relena, hopefully, 'There's plenty of room…'

There was silence, of a contemplative variety, that is, Heero and Trowa picturing their former acquaintances all together, in the same house… Before the picture could take shape, though, and before they had time to shudder, Relena sensed where their minds were taking them and said,

'I'd say we owed it to them –they'll know of _us_ sooner or later, and it'd be the right thing…'

'Indeed, you invite them. Give me the precise date so Trowa and I can go into hiding, though.'

Trowa laughed again, and Relena, seeing through Heero's seriousness, play-slapped his shoulder at the mock-indignant cry of 'Heero!'.

Heero chuckled, and Trowa was glad at the changes in his friend. Life seemed to have rightened its wrongs with him.

It was not in Trowa's nature to ask more questions than he needed to form a general picture of situations, but here he discovered that he wanted to know more about the whole affair. He tried to be tactful.

'So, no one knows you're married?'

'No,' said Heero.

'Yes,' said Relena.

'Yes…?' Heero asked, arching an eyebrow.

She chortled, good-naturedly: 'Noin might know…'

Heero looked at her. 'Of all people…?'

'Oh, come,' she said, amiably, 'They're in _Mars_. So what it my brother finds out? It's not like he can suddenly show up in our doorstep. Besides, he likes you.'

'He does?' asked Trowa, quizzically.

'He'll never admit it to _Heero_ ,' said Relena, as a confirmation.

'Sounds logical,' said Trowa, with a shrug, and she laughed.

'You know,' Relena said, in a confidential manner, reaching out to scoop up some blueberries from the table, and popping one into her mouth in an unvoluntarily ladylike fashion, 'I was playing a secret betting game with myself, about which of you guys would wind up here first. Honestly, I thought it'd be Duo. It seems I lost against myself!' she said, mirthfully, and laughed.

'How can you know he didn't?' Heero said, mischievously, 'If he had, he'd have been so soon on his way back, you wouldn't have even noticed him.'

'Aw, Heero,' she said, drawling his name, 'You _say_ that, but you don't really mean it.'

Heero arched his brow, playfully, 'How can you know that?'

But Trowa knew, too- he didn't mean it.

Although he'd not have thought he'd live to see Heero _bicker_ with anyone, and curious though it made him, he politely focused his attention elsewhere. At first it was on the patterns on the wooden ceiling, then on the lifelike-looking wood-carvings of animal heads, hung deceptively to appear like hunting prizes.

However, he inevitably eventually ended up noticing that Heero wore a ring, but Relena didn't. Instead, he discovered later, she wore it in a chain around her neck.

He was aware of his keen observation powers, and so, before he noticed other things that led him to find out or assume stuff, he respectfully cleared his throat. Relena laughed mildly at this- she seemed to be at complete ease with him, although they were hardly more than strangers.

Trowa smiled. And Heero, he just looked at him in the eye and declared:

'In any case, I'm glad it's you here and not Duo.'

.

.

It was night, after dinner.

Relena had excused herself, saying there was a video-call she could not fail to make.

Heero knelt before a large stone hearth, gathering everything to light a fire. He cut a noble figure, and his air and the dim light made it appear like a movie-scene from somewhen in the Middle Ages: the lord, the stone wall, minus the dogs and plus Trowa, who sat comfortably on an armchair in his socks alone (taking off his boots had made Heero raise a diverted eyebrow), and who was too much of the present times to be mistaken for a lord himself.

Maybe if he did away with the hair…

Heero's quiet voice did not disrupt the peaceable atmosphere.

'What are you thinking?', he asked.

Trowa smiled a little.

'What was the first language you learnt? Do you still remember it?'

It was not that he intended things to reach personal levels with Heero, but they just did. Probably because they were too much alike.

Maybe because Heero had no prejudgements at all.

'It was long ago, but it must have been the common tongue. It's what my mother must have spoken in the Colonies.'

Or because his answers were always honest.

'And you?'

'I thought I didn't. But I'm wondering now, if I maybe do…'

Heero looked over his shoulder, and for a brief seconds, his striking blue eyes met Trowa's, and told him he understood that what he would say next would be meaningful. So he'd better say it.

'I wound up in Romania, after I set out. I understood some, from within. I can't explain. But I got a feeling… like nostalgia.'

'If you think it is, then it must be,' he said, dusting his hands, and standing away to check how well the fire took. It took nicely, so Heero grabbed his neglected cup of tea, and sat on the armchair opposing Trowa, more formally but not less comfortably.

'Is that why you're travelling?'

Trowa sighed, and looked up, as if searching for an answer. He'd known that, sooner or later, someone would ask him that question. He was thankful that it had been Heero, because he supposed that no one in the world could empathize with him, and, thus, read him, better.

'I don't know,' he said, closing his eyes. 'It may be is. I told myself I would stop running away, though this is hardly consistent with that.'

Heero looked at him. He looked at him for a long while, as though, by looking at Trowa, he were looking at himself.

'We each have a personal way of grieving,' he said, at length, 'Some make the mistake of thinking they're supposed to do it immediately and go on with life. But they're wrong. We, humans, are frail, and healing takes time.'

'Healing?' Trowa asked.

'Yes,' Heero said, quietly, 'Our hearts take the blows the hardest, and heal the slowest.'

Trowa's gaze became lost in the dancing of the tame flames in the hearth. He felt warm inside and tongue-tied.

'But we heal,' he whispered. His voice sounded soft –it always did.

A moment passed in which Heero just looked into the fire too, probably lost in a memory of a kind both greatly alike and unlike the memories Trowa had. And then he said, gently,

'Yes. We heal.'

.

.

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* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Nothing Heero says is not the voice of my Inner Wise Man, who has learnt all he knows from the experiences I've had throughout my life -the good, and the bad.

.

I'm one grade away from graduating, and the teacher decided to torture us. Oh my, why won't it just end. I hate university. Anyway. That's the reason why my updates are so erratic lately.

I'd love to read you, as always :)


	13. andermatt- the inn

**This is Trowa in this story** _(the actor who plays the guy that runs away with the girl)_ **: _www. you tube dot com_** ** _(slash) watch? v=5Fxv4MeH988_**

 ** _:)_**

 _... (and that's the song that goes with this chapter, too)_

 ** _._**

 ** _andermatt- the inn  
_**

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The next day, wearier than he had thought he would be, Trowa slept in.

Waking up, he felt, at first, very disoriented. Doubly so, because that never happened to him, so he scarcely could pinpoint the feeling. When, stickily, his eyes blinked open, he lingered for a while lying on the bed, his head free of thoughts, looking up at the ceiling and vaguely forming figures with the knots in the wood.

He breathed in deeply, slowly. He was aware, even without consciously being so, of the pleasant scent of the clean bedsheets and the silken feeling of the pillow, even despite the slight stubble grown overnight. It was almost surprising, given how used he had become to the coarse isolation of his face inside the helmet.

He could tell, by pure instinct, what time it was from the coloring of the light that filtrated through the blinds- roughly early noon, and he marveled at it. He did not remember the last time he had slept that late. And, although he'd heard that it was normal for it to ache all over after binge-sleeping, he couldn't remember the last time that had happened to him either.

Eventually, gingerly, he soundlessly came downstairs.

 _I'm starving_ , he observed, in the detached manner that was so him. So, easily, he navigated the large, beautiful rooms until he located the kitchen.

No one seemed to be home: coffee had been left for him on the table, along with a sumptuous breakfast he was immensely thankful for, regardless of how cold it might have gotten since it had been prepared. A cute little note, undoubtedly written by Relena, was placed over the cup, so that he wouldn't miss it. It said something about her returning later, and his helping himself to whatever he would in his own place.

So, reassured by the friendly message, and encouraged by this curious bout of hunger, Trowa ate to his heart's content for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. And not a flicker of guilt did he feel when, after a _third_ helping, he finished the _all_ of the food his hosts had laid out for him- not even if he was aware that, if he'd been on a mission, such an amount would have made him last three full days- without starving himself.

Well, but maybe he was just through with enduring.

Pleasantly contented, he did the dishes and got himself outside. Though the sky was clouding over, the breeze was fresh and lively, and it all made him feel like... It made him feel free.

Such life coursed through his veins, he would have scarcely known himself some weeks ago. But willing himself not to think about what was left behind (or why), he dashed back inside, deftly sought in his bag his little flute, and, stuffing it in his pocket, sprinted back outside.

He chose the tree he'd climb with an expert eye, and two calculated jumps later saw him perched on the perfect branch of an otherwise spiky pine-tree. He idled around with the flute, and put together some notes to go with the countryside view.

This tree of his was tall, sturdy. Still, when the wind picked up, it swayed gently; and the awareness of it all (he, in all his letal wretchedness, helpless to the will of the tame giant-tree; and both of their fates joined by the violence of the wind), filled him with such an emotion, such a feeling for which he had no name, that he had to close his eyes and take it in with the words he had: imposing, sublime.

After a while, his fingers found, on the slippery texture of the flute, their way into Radu's jig. It filled him with nostalgia, and his mind mixed places where he was where places he might have been.

 _I swear I'm not doing this to myself on purpose_ , he thought, _What on Earth has worn me down so much?_

A sigh escaped his lips, and it seemed to welcome the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. He could see it, from where he was- a white, nondescript Honda. The driver's door opened to let Relena out, and then she opened the trunk and pulled a couple of bags out.

Trowa thought that moment as good as any to come down. In a refreshingly acrobatic way.

When his feet touched the ground, meek clapping caught him by surprise.

"That's amazing!" Relena said, "Do it again!".

Another person who was not as polite as Trowa (or who had more of an acquaintance with her) would have let slip that she sounded like a little girl. But Trowa just smiled noncommittally.

"Maybe next time," he said, after having taken a stage-worthy bow.

She bowed back. "Want to help?" she offered, gesturing to the bags she carried. With Trowa's barely perceptible nod, she gestured with her head (her hands were full) to the trunk- "There's more in there. Just bring them inside, and then we can sort them".

Rather than groceries, as he'd supposed, the bags contained little plants.

"Have you pulled weeds before?" Relena asked him, when he came inside. He left the bags in the foyer, next to the rest.

"Define weeds", he answered.

It took her a few seconds of staring at him (rather dumbly) to see he was joking. She cast a mischievous glance at him- an _I see what you did there_ glance, and broke into a smile.

"I mean, because I've got to plant these as soon as I can, and they're a lot, so it'd be great if you could give me a hand".

This time, when he nodded, Trowa was smiling.

.

Relena had duly noted that he had not answered her question previously. She didn't know why, but she found it rather sad. Because she noticed how he'd waited, kneeling on the ground next to her, until she'd began plucking out weeds from a withering bed of (what had been) flowers, and then until he thought she wasn't looking, to intently learn how she did it- pulling softly from the stem near the ground, until the earth gave up the whole root, and coaxing gently the plant to let go if it was too tightly set- and only then did he begin doing it himself, experimentally.

 _So it's a no,_ she thought _, he's never done it before._

They didn't speak much, but Relena occasionally snapped a selfie of them working.

"It's for my friends" she'd say, innocently. Clever girl, Trowa thought. If she'd said _our_ friends, he knew it'd have been within his rights to secretly erase them all. He shook his head, half-smiling.

"Give me your number," she said amicably, "I'll send you the best".

 _My number?_ It was not without embarrassment that he noticed that he didn't know it- no one really asked him for his number in his day-to-day life. All those he could think of who would want it were the members of his troupe, and they had all had it even before he'd even taken the phone out of its box (it'd been their gift, after all).

So he slipped it out of his pocket, unlocked it, and handed it over to her. "There," he said levelly, "You can find it."

She hummed while she saved her contact. She told herself she wasn't going to pry, but she ended up quickly flicking over his contact list. It was a brief list, and it didn't surprise her. One thing did, though.

"Duo's not on your contact list", she commented.

He smiled, as he successfully pulled out a long, spidery root. "But Quatre is," he offered.

Relena laughed a little under her breath, and handed him the phone back.

"Oh," she said, "What Heero would give to switch phones with you…"

"Well, now that your number's in there too, I don't think he'd care if we did," he said, shrinking his shoulders. "I would miss Cathy's number, though. I _may_ not know it either…" he confessed.

Relena laughed, again. She was finding that his wit was quick, and his kind of humor suited her.

"It's really easy being around you, you know? I wonder why we never really talked until now"

 _Because there was a war. There was really nothing else to say._ He thought that, but, instead, he answered,

"I don't talk much".

And Relena, _again_ , laughed.

.

.

He knew how to make sandwiches.

He was glad to feel useful _now,_ because although they had finished with Relena's plants just before it got completely dark outside, he reckoned he hadn't felt useful doing something he had only been learning as he went.

Standing side by side in the kitchen, they made a rather efficient sandwich-assembling team, Relena and him.

Heero, she'd told him, wouldn't be around for a couple of days. 'Something' had come up and he'd had to take the first train to Bern that morning, and Trowa understood between the lines that that was the price he paid for anonymity and relative tranquility: select 'somethings' he _had_ to be available for. Always, anytime, anywhere. Well, it was a flawless choice, if anybody asked Trowa. He'd maybe have resorted to the same kind of life, if only he'd not had the circus- but he'd never been as fond as Heero of the civil life of a former soldier, anyway.

Silence was easy with Relena, and he whole-heartedly appreciated that they could eat like that, just looking out of the window at the darkness, standing and breathing. Trowa, he was a silent breather, and sometimes he felt he drew in air, and drew out silence. Not that night, though. That night, he rather felt like he breathed in winter, and breathed out freedom.

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 **Author's Note:**

Did you watch the video? If you didn't, here's the link again: **_www._** ** _ ** _you tube dot com_** (slash) watch? v=5Fxv4MeH988 ... _yup, Trowa here.** To the T. If anyone finds out his name, I will commission her or him anything they wish. A story, a picture, _anything_.

...

Thank you guys for the lovely reviews and all the support :) I am sorry this update comes so delayed, but I graduated university and the weight of the world fell on my shoulders (well, you know that's not true. But that's how it feels, anyway).

I hope you liked this chapter, and the path the story is taking. I'm eager to hear your thoughts! (especially regarding that amazingly Trowa-like Romanian actor!)

Read you soon :D


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